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The  Dramas  of  Lord  Byron 


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The  Dramas  of  Lord  Byron 


A  Critical  Study 


by 


Samuel  C.  Chew,  In,  Ph.  D. 

Associate  in  English  Literature  in^Bryn  Mawr  College; 
sometime  Fellow  of  the  Johns  Hopkins  University 


(Bottingen 

PandenI)oe(f  &  Hupre^t 

1915 

Baltimore:  Slje  3ol)ns  Jjopfins  Press 


Vcrlag   von  Tandenbocdt  &  Rapred)t   in    6dttiii0en. 


^efperia 


$d)riften  3ur  germanifdjen  pi)ilologtc 

^erausgegcben  Don 
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^ofefior  of  ®ennanlc  ^fiilologl) 
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Dtejc  Sommlung  Don  S^riften  ift  ous,  ben  Bc6urfnif|cn  6er  gcnnanijd|cn 
Pf)tIoIogic  in  ben  Dereinigten  Staaten  ertDodjjen.  3I)re  ITlitarbciter  toerbcn  in 
er|ter  Cinte  pi)iIoIogen  fetn,  bic  an  amerifani|d)en  Unto  erf  itfiten  toirfen  ober  an 
joldjcn  tl)re  flusbilbung  erfjalten  l)aben.  ITTtt  Rudfidjt  Ijierauf  l\at  jie  ben  Ilamcn 
'Ejejpcria'  erl)alten,  beffen  Dernjenbung  uns  burd)  profeffor  ©ilberjIecDcs  Sd)rift: 
'fellas  anb  ijejperia'  nalicgelegt  roar. 

flusgcgeben  |inb  bis  jc^t: 


1.  Ejermann  CoUt^,    Das  fd)tDad)e  Pratcritum  unb  fcine  Dorgcjdji^tc. 

XVI,  256  S.     1912.     (Belj.  8  J6;  Z^mrx)bhb.  8,80  J6. 

Dcr  !)erf6mmli(i)en  flnfidjt  gcgcniiber,  toeldjc  in  bem  j(i|tDad)en  Prfiteritum  einc 
3ujamntenje^ung  mit  bem  Seitmort  „tun"  fiel)t,  toirb  I)ter  bie  fluffafjung  begriinbct, 
ba^  has  fd)tDad|e  prfiteritum  als  eigenartige  (Enttoidlung  bes  inbogermanijd)en 
mebialcn  perfefts  an3u|el)cn  jei.  Die  ffinlcitung  gibt  flushinft  iiber  bie  bisljerigcn 
Dcrjud)e,  bie  (Ent|tel|ung  bes  |d)tDa(i)en  prateritums  3U  erflaren.  (Ein  flnljang 
entl)alt  Bcmerfungen  3um  Iateini|d)en  pcrfeft  unb  eine  neuc  ^Ijeoric  bes  gried)ijd)cn 
pajlioaoriftes. 

Das  Bud)  ift  alfo  and)  fur  flitplttlologen  oon  Bcbeutung. 

2.  Hans  Sachs  and  Goethe.   By  M.  C.  Burehinal,  Ph.  D. 

IV,  52  S.     1912.  (Bet).  1,80.^;  Ceinrobbb.  2,50^. 

Dicje  Sdjrift  bel)anbelt  oorsugstoeije  bas  UTetrum  bes  Urfauft  in  jeinem 
Pcrl)altniffe  3U  bem  Derje  bcr  Sprud)gebid)te  bes  £)ans  Sad)s.  Die  Derfd|iebenen 
flnfidjten,  bie  fid)  in  ber  fluffaffung  bes  jogen.  .Knitteloerjes'  gcltenb  gcma^t 
l|aben,  toerben  eingeljcnb  bejprodjen. 

3.  tDorterbu^  unb  HeiniDer3ei(^ms  3U  bem  „arTncn  i^cinridi"  ^axt-- 

manns  con  Hue.    Don   (Butbo   d.  £.  Rtemer,  prof.  a.  b.  Burfncll= 
Umoerjitt),  £etDisburg.  IV,  162  S.  1912.    (5cl).  3  ^;  Zwbhb.  3,70  J6. 

Bci  ber  flusarbeitung  biejes  IDorterbudjcs  l)at  bem  Derf.  ein  dl)nlid)es  3icl 
Dorgejd)tDebt,  toic  es  fid)  Benede  bei  feinem  IDorterbud)e  3um  3tDcin  geftedt  tjatte. 
Itamentlid)  gilt  bas  infofern,  als  aud)  bas  Dorlicgcnbe  Bud)  forool)!  bem  flnfanger 
n)ie  bem  geleljrten  StKiiqenollen  3U  gute  fommen  m6d)te.  Dem  flnfanger  3U  licbc 
ift  bie  Bebeutung  ber  IDorter  etroas  ausfut|rlid)er  bargeftellt  als  bet  B.  (Es  erfd)ien 
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cntroidelung  flar  t)erDortreten  3U  laffen.  Der  flbfid)t  einer  genauen  fluffaffung  bes 
mittelf)od)beutfd)en  tEejtes  bienen  aud)  bie  an  oielen  Stellen  beigcfiigten  Uber= 
fe^ungen  einselner  Sd^e  ober  Sa^tcilc.  —  Um  bie  Braud)barfeit  bes  IDorterbudjes 
fiir  rDiffenfd)aftlid)e  Sroede  3U  crl)6f)en,  ift  auf  bie  Dariantcn  bcr  flusgaben  Don 
£)aupt=IUartin,  con  tDadernageI=troifd)er=StabIcr  unb  oon  Bed)  Riidfid)t  genommen. 
Das  ReimDer3eid)nis  ift  nad)  einem  neuen  plane  (nad)  ben  Dorfd)Idgen  oon  Prof. 
t}elm  in  (Bienen)  angelegt  unb  fann  baf)er  gerabe3u  als  Dorbilb  fiir  fUnftige  flr= 
beitcn  biefer  Art  bienen. 

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THE  DRAMAS  OF  LORD  BYRON 


A  Critical  Study 


|6--/l^ 


n^ 


by 


Samuel  C.  Chew,  Jr.,  Ph.  D. 

Associate  in  English  Literature  in  Bryn  Mawr  College; 
Sometime  Fellow  of  the  Johns  Hopkins  University. 


(Eottittgen 

t)an6enI)oe(I  &  Hupredit 

1915 

Baltimore:  lEIjc  3ot)ns  t}opIins  Press 


Godrnckt  bei  Hubert  &  Co.,  G.  m.  b.  H.  in  Gottingen. 


f'K  ^3^-?' 


In  Memory  of 
Horace  Howard  Furness. 


A  soul  bom  active,  wind-beaten  but  ascending. 

Meredith. 


Preface 

Most  people  of  culture  have  read  Manfred  and  Cain ; 
Byron's  other  i)lays  are  now  almost  unknown  to  that  portion 
of  the  "general  public"  that  reads  poetry  at  all.  Yet  these 
plays  deserve  careful  perusal,  all  but  Werner,  which  is  about 
as  complete  a  failure  as  anything  in  literature.  They  are  not 
absorbingly  entertaining,  but  the}'  are  provocative  of  thought. 
Knowledge  of  them  is  essential,  moreover,  to  the  appreciation 
of  Byron's  entire  achievement.  There  have  been  many  mono- 
graphs on  the  individual  plays,  but  the  whole  group  has  never 
been  studied  with  any  degree  of  adequac}-.  *  Such  a  study 
is  here  essa3'ed.  It  is  introduced  by  a  brief  account  of  the 
chief  characteristics  of  the  drama  of  the  romantic  period,  in 
order  that  B3Ton's  plays  —  too  often  regarded  as  a  gi'oup  of 
isolated  phenomena  —  may  be  related  to  the  general  history 
of  dramatic  Uterature. 

1  planned  to  print  as  an  appendix  to  this  study  a  full 
Thought-Index  to  BjTon's  complete  works  —  poems,  letters, 
journals,  and  scattered  prose  writings;  but  it  outgrew  the 
space  provided  for  it  and  shall  be  published  separately. 

To  record  indebtedness  is  here  a  pleasure:  to  Professor 
J.  \V.  Bright  for  constant  encouragement  and  criticism;  to 
Professor  W.  E.  Leonard,  of  the  University  of  Wisconsin,  who 
has  read  my  book  in  manuscript,  for  several  valuable  sug- 
gestions; to  Mr.  John  Murray  for  permission  to  use  the  copy- 
right material  in  the  Goleridge-Prothero  Byron; '^  to  Mr.  Paul 
Elmer  More  and  Mr.  Richard  Edgcumbe  for  courteous  replies 
to  queries;  to  Mr.  George  Shipley  and  Mr.  Thomas  DeC.  Ruth 
for  most  welcome  aid  with  the  proofs;  and  to  my  earliest  and 
best  guide  in  poetry  as  in  all  things  —  my  father. 
S.C.  C.Jr. 

^  William  Gerard,  Byron  Restudied  in  his  Dramas,  London,  1886, 
is  almost  worthless. 

^  The  abbreviations  P.  and  LJ.  are  used  throughout  this  book  for  the 
Poems,  edited  by  E.  H.  Coleridge,  and  the  Letters  and  Journals,  edited  by 
R.  L.  Prothero,  respectively. 


Contents 


Preface v 

— Chapter  One.       The  Drama  of  the  Romantic  Period 1 

— Chapter  Two.      Byron  and  the  Contemporary  Drama 30 

— Chapter  Three.    Technique 41 

Chapter  Four.      Manfred 59 

Chapter  Five.      The  Two  Venetian  Plays       85 

Chapter  Six.        Sardanapalus 103 

Chapter  Seven.     Cain  and  Heaven  and  Earth 118 

Chapter  Eight.  Werner  and  The  Deformed  Transformed       .     .     .  143 

Chapter  Nine.      The  Suhstance  of  the  Plays       149 

-Appendix      I.      Byron  and  the  Dramatic  Unities 165 

Appendix    II.      Manfred  and  Faust 174 

Appendix  III.  Shakespearean  Echoes  in  Marino  Faliero     ....  179 


Chapter  One. 
The  Drama  of  the  Romantic  Period. 

The  types  of  mid-eighteenth  century  drama  disappear^  or 
assumed  new  forms  under  the  influence  of  romanticism.  As 
the  force  of  French  influence  declined,  the  pseudo  -  classical 
play,  of  which  Johnson's  Irene  is  a  specimen,  lost  the  favor 
even  of  the  few.  The  Elizabethanism  of  Rowe,  apparent  despite 
its  veneer  of  classicism,  was  to  be  succeeded  by  a  new  and 
sincere  revival  of  interest  in  the  lesser  dramatists,  who  had 
meanwhile  faded  almost  utterly  from  the  knowledge  of  play- 
goers. From  the  time  of  Gibber  and  Steele  sentimental  comedy 
had  been  popular,  fostered  as  it  was  by  the  influence  of  Des- 
touches,  Marivaux  and  Nivelle  de  la  Ghaussee,  and  paralleled 
later  by  the  sentimentalism  of  Sterne  and  Mackenzie.  Even 
the  blow  dealt  at  this  genre  by  Sheridan  in  The  Critic  (1779) 
did  not  immediately  stop  the  vogue.  More  genuinely  vital  was 
the  work  of  Goldsmith  and  Sheridan,  which  derives  from  Moliere 
and  Gongreve  and  passes  on  the  tradition  in  successive  stages 
of  weakness  to  the  school  of  George  Golman  the  Younger  and 
Thomas  Holcroft.  The  one  addition  to  dramatic  types  made 
by  the  century  was  the  domestic  tragedy  of  George  Lillo, 
which,  though  descended  from  an  Elizabethan  type  and  related 
to  sentimental  comedy,  is  essentially  a  new  beginning  in  the 
dead  waste  of  pseudo-classicism.  But  such  tragedies  of  common 
life,  often  hardly  more  than  dramatized  versions  of  the  Newgate 
Galendar,  while  an  important  reform  in  material  and  technique, 
could  not  raise  the  standard  of  dramatic  art.^ 

During  the  eighteenth  century  the  drama  dwindled  and 
expired.     For  it  ceased  truly  to  reflect  the  national  life,   and 


*  For  an  account  of  the  drama  of  this  time  see  The  Cambridge  History 
of  English  Literature,  X  (1913),  chap.  iv. 

Hesperia,  B.  3.  1 


2  Chapter  One. 

art  cannot  exist  independently  of  life.  Plays  therefore  became 
a  "literary  by-product".^  For  a  brief  period  at  the  beginning 
of  the  nineteenth  century  there  was  a  revival  of  interest  in 
the  poetic  di'ama,  and  it  is  with  this  period  that  I  propose  to 
deal  in  this  chapter. 

The  "Gothic"  noveP  strongly  influenced  the  new  romantic 
drama.  The  fashion  left  its  mark  upon  the  work  of  many  con- 
temporary writers,  including  Byron,  whose  Lara  especially  de- 
rives directly  from  Mrs.  Radcliffe's  type  of  hero-villain.  It  was 
a  crude  but  authentic  manifestation  of  the  time -spirit,  and 
arose  from  a  fundamental  deficiency  in  the  eighteenth  century. 
The  obtrusion  of  the  reason  into  those  portions  of  human  ex- 
perience properly  the  domain  of  the  imagination  was  abnormal. 
The  imagination,  thwarted  but  restless,  was  driven  forth  into 
barren  places.  Rationalism  produced  extravagance  because  it 
failed  to  provide  nourishing  spiritual  food.  Not  children  only 
need  Arabian  romances,  monkish  legends,  and  "tales  that  charm 
away  the  wakeful  night",  for 

"something  in  the  shape 
Of  these  will  live  till  man  shall  be  no  more. 
Dumb  yearnings,  hidden  appetites  are  ours, 
And  they  must  have  their  food."  ^ 

From  the  desperate  ennui  of  the  time  two  avenues  of  escape 
offered,  leading  respectively  to  the  remote  in  space  or  in  time. 
Hence  the  popularity  of  tales  of  the  Orient.*  To  people  tired 
of  tea-cups  and  sedan-chairs  the  gorgeous  East  held  out  the 
enticement  of  surprises,  mystery,  and  horror.  Hence,  too,  the 
renascence  of  medievalism  which  is  the  basis  of  the  "Gothic" 
revival,  the  allurement  of  the  remote  in  time.  The  impulse 
had  in  it  the  essentials  of  romanticism:  medievalism,  the  appeal 
to  wonder,  the  excitation  of  terror.     At  best  the  horrific  ele- 

1  A.  H.  Thorndike,    Tragedy,   Boston,   Houghton,   Mifflin,  1908,  p.  321. 

^  See  Walter  Raleigh,  The  English  Novel,  New  York,  Scribner,  1910, 
p.  221f.;  George  Saintsbury,  The  English  Novel,  New  York,  Button,  1913, 
p.  155  f.  On  Walpole's  Castle  of  Otranto  (1764)  see  also  C.  L.  Eastlake, 
The  History  of  the  Gothic  Revival,  London,  Longmans,  1872,  p.  43 ;  Leslie 
Stephen,  Hours  in  a  Library,  New  York,  Putnam,  1904,  II,   143. 

»  Wordsworth,  The  Prelude  V,  504  f. 

*  See  M.  P.  Conant,  The  Oriental  Tale  in  English  Literature,  New 
York,  Macmillan,  p.  247,  and  for  the  influence  of  the  genre  on  the  drama,  p.  76. 


The  Drama  of  the  Romantic  Period.  3 

ments  could  be  moulded  into  such  a  story  as  The  Fall  of  the 
House  of  Usher.  But  the  style  was  on  the  verge  of  absurdity, 
and  often,  as  in  Lewis's  Monk,  went  far  beyond  the  boun- 
dary line. 

The  license  of  the  mode  appeared  in  the  drama  as  well 
as  in  the  novel;  sensational  material  was  always  in  demand 
—  ghosts,  crime,  and  horror  —  and  the  means  employed  were 
coarse  and  crude.  Walpole's  Mysterious  Mother^  (t768),  the 
earliest  and  most  notable  "Gothic"  tragedy,  was  praised  by 
Byron  (P.  IV,  339)  as  "a  tragedy  of  the  highest  order".  Cole- 
ridge^, on  the  contrary,  accusing  Byron  of  insincerity,  called 
it  "disgusting,  vile,  detestable."  The  epithets  are  justified,  for 
the  plot  has  to  do  with  incest  of  the  most  unheard-of  sort. 
The  construction  of  the  play  is  wild  and  crude;  the  "Gothic" 
requisites,  a  castle  falling  to  ruins,  crime,  mj^stery,  monks,  etc., 
ai'e  abundantly  supplied.  There  is  httle  regard  for  dramatic 
development  and  none  for  the  portrayal  of  character.  The 
catastrophe  alone  is  pretty  well  managed.  The  blank-verse  is 
nearly  always  sheer  bombast. 

The  number  of  such  terror-dramas  was  large;  novels  were 
dramatized  £ind  original  plays  written  in  the  same  style.  Of 
these  "Monk"  Lewis's  Castle  Spectre'  is  typical.  It  teUs  of  the 
attempt  of  a  feudal  lord  to  force  his  niece  to  marry  him,  though 
she  preferred  "a  basOisk's  kiss"  to  his.  "The  great  run  which 
this  piece  had",  says  Genest*,  "is  striking  proof  that  success 
is  a  very  uncertain  criterion  of  merit.  .  .  .  How  anyone 
not  destitute  of  sense  could  write  such  stuff  is  wonderful". 
Byron  refers  to  the  piece  in  Hints  from  Horace  (11.  290,  note), 
and  the  lines  on  Lewis  in  English  Bards  (11.  269  f.)  form  a 
comment  on  the  genre. 

But  upon  the  stage  these  extreme  examples  of  the  terrific 
school  could  obtain  no  permanent  success,  for  there  the  chief 
instrument  for  the  attainment  of  the  effect  desired  —  the  use 


*  The  Mysterious  Mother.    A  Tragedy.     London,   1781   (ed.  Dodsley). 
"^  Table- Talk  of  the  late  S.  T.  Coleridge,   ed.  H.  N.  Coleridge,    1835 

n,  154. 

*  Cumberland's  British  Theatre  XV. 

*  Some  Account  of  the  English  Stage,  Bath,  1832,  VII,  332.    Cf.  Letters 
of  the  Wordsworth  Family,  ed.  W.  Knight,  London,  Macmillan,  I,  114. 

1* 


4  Chapter  One. 

of  suggestion  —  was  rendered  almost  powerless.  The  stage 
heightened  absurdities  and  checked  the  shudder  afforded  by 
solitary  perusal  "by  the  light  of  a  candle  with  a  very  long 
wick". 

The  motive  of  terror  was  combined  with  that  of  sentimen- 
tality in  many  plays  translated  or  imitated  from  the  German. 
For  a  while  the  plays  of  Kotzebue  were  immensely  popular. 
Menschenhass  und  Bene  was  produced  in  1798,  followed  a  year 
later  by  Sheridan's  Pizarro  ^,  a  weak  version  of  Die  Spanier  in 
Peru.  It  was  a  great  success.^  Brandl*  ascribes  the  success 
of  Kotzebue's  plays  to  the  fact  that  "mechanical  cleverness 
tells  more  in  front  of  the  foothghts  than  all  lyrical  and  philo- 
sophical refinements."  This  technique  was  employed  upon 
themes  familiar  to  Englishmen.  The  sentimentality  harmonized 
with  Holcroftian  comedy.  The  point  of  view  was  democratic; 
"custom"  and  "positive  law"  were  denounced  in  the  name  of 
nature.*  Thus  was  the  revolutionary  thought  of  the  period 
voiced;  and  popularity  followed.  Southey,  whose  sole  experi- 
ment in  di'amatic  form^  combines  the  zeal  of  a  repubhcan  and 
the  immature  judgment  of  a  boy,  wrote®,  "The  German  plays 
have  always  something  ridiculous,  yet  Kotzebue  seems  to  me 
y/  possessed  of  unsurpassed  and  unsurpassable  genius."  Scott,  whose 
J  first  play  was  a  translation  of  Goethe's  Gotz  von  Berlichingen, 
pronounced  wiser  judgment.  "The  better  productions  of  the 
German  stage,"  he  says',  "have  never  been  made  known  to 
us;  for  by  some  unfortunate  chance  the  wretched  pieces 
of  Kotzebue  have  found  a  readier  acceptance,  or  more  willing 
translators,  than  the  sublimity  of  Goethe,  or  the  romantic  strength 
of  Schiller."  Nor  were  others  silent  in  condemnation  of  the 
furore.     In  the  British  Museum  there  is  a  satirical  piece  On 


*  See  further  L.  Bahlsen,  "Kotzebue's  Peru-Dramen  und  Sheridan's  Pi- 
zarro", Herrig's  ArcMv  LXXXI,  354  f. 

,  *  See  Thomas  Medwin,  Conversions  with  Lord  Byron,  1824,  p.  189. 

y  '  Alois  Brandl,  Coleridge  and  the  English  Romantic  School,  London, 

John  Murray,  1887,  p.  171. 

*  C.  H.  Herford,  The  Age  of  Wordsworth,  London,  Bell,  1905,  p.  139. 
6  Wat  Tyler,  Poetical   Works,  1837,  II,  If. 

"  A  Selection  from  the  Letters  of  Robert  Southey,  ed.  J.  W.  Warner, 
London,  1856,  I,  68. 

'  Quoted  by  Bahlsen,  p.  379. 


The  Drama  of  the  Romantic  Period.  5 

the  Prevalence  of  the  German  Drama  on  the  British  Stage,  "by  a 
Gentleman",  London,  1805  \  which  is  interesting  as  anticipating 
lines  580  —  5  of  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers.  The 
"gentleman"  thus  addresses  Sheridan: 

"See  how  thy  own,  once  verdant,  laurels  fade, 
Since  thou  canst  stoop  to  call  in  foreign  aid. 
Since  thou  canst  join  the  tame  translating  crew, 
And  banish  Avon's  bard  for  Kotzebue." 

He  also  criticises  the  German  taste  for  "lawless  passion"  which 
drives  the  "feeling  soul"  to  fi-enzy,  and  "sensibility  with  sickly 
mien"  which  "heaves  the  deep  sigh  and  calls  the  starting  tear". 
More  drastic  was  the  attack  by  John  Styles,  whose  Essay  on 
the  Character  and  Influence  of  the  Stage  on  Morals  and  Happiness 
(second  edition,  1807)  carries  on  the  tradition  of  Tertullian  and 
Grosseteste,  Prynne  and  Collier.  He  writes  (p.  47),  "The  recent 
introduction  of  the  German  drama  may  be  considered  a  phoe- 
nomenon  in  the  world  of  dissipation.  The  writings  of  Gon- 
greve  and  Dryden  are  absolutely  pure,  when  compared  with 
the  vile  disgusting  offspring  of  the  profligate  Kotzebue." 

In  1798  appeared  The  Rovers,  by  Frere  and  Canning, 
the  Anti- Jacobin's  famous  parody  of  the  German  plays.  ^  It  had 
much  to  do  with  the  swift  decline  of  the  vogue  towards  the 
end  of  the  century.  The  fashion  of  tragedy  began  to  change. 
"Horrors  continued  to  be  popular,"  says  Brandl  (p.  166),  "but 
less  in  the  way  of  robbers,  ghosts,  and  tyrants,  external  mis- 
eries, crass  romances,  and  empty  tirades,  than  in  inward 
commotions  of  the  soul."  There  are  attempts  at  psychologicsd 
analysis.  This  tendency  is  seen  in  Wordsworth's  Borderers 
(1795—6),  Lamb's  John  Woodvil  (1801),  Scott's  Sensuality  and 
Revenge  (1798),  and  Coleridge's  Osorio.  The  new  psychological 
drama  is,  however,  best  represented  by  the  series  of  Plays  on 
the  Passions  by  Joanna  BaiUie. 

Lack  of  space  forbids  a  review  of  aU  Miss  BaiUie' s  dramas. 
I  therefore  select  the  two  praised  by  Byron:  Ethwald  and  De  Mont- 
fort.  *    At  the  foundation  of  Joanna  Baillie's  theories  and  prac- 


1  First  noted  by  Koeppel,  Eng.  Stud.  XIII,  530. 

*  The  Poetry  of  the  Anti-Jacobin,   ed.  Charles  Edmonds,   New  York, 
Putnam,  1890,  p.  201  f. 

»  Preface  to  Marino  Faliero,  P.  IV,  338. 


6  Chapter  One. 

tice  in  the  drama  was  a  reaction  from  the  "Gothic"  vogue, 
very  similar  to  that  which  later  led  Bj-ron  to  the  "regular" 
drama.  Byron  evidently  appreciated  the  kinship  of  effort  be- 
tween Miss  Baillie  and  himself.  There  are,  however,  only  two 
important  references  to  her  in  his  writings.  He  wrote  to  Miss 
Milbanke  (LJ.  Til,  399),  "She  is  our  only  dramatist  since  Otway 
and  Southerne";  and  to  Moore  (LJ.  Ill,  197),  "Women  (saving 
Joanna  Baillie)  cannot  write  tragedy:  they  have  not  seen  nor 
felt  enough  of  life  for  it."  While  on  the  Drury  Lane  Committee, 
Byron  tried  to  have  De  Montfort  revived,  but  without  success.^ 
Joanna  BaiUie's  design  was  explained  at  length  in  an  intro- 
ductory discourse  prefixed  to  the  first  instalment  of  her  Plays 
on  the  Passions"  (1798).  She  declares  that  the  "sympathetic 
curiosity"  with  which  man  regards  his  fellow  man  and  which 
makes  him  eager  to  behold  the  various  and  conflicting  emotions 
that  arise  in  him,  and  which  he  governs  or  is  governed  by, 
is  a  Godgiven  instinct,  since  "in  examining  others  we  know 
ourselves"  (p.  4).  It  is  the  mission  of  the  drama  to  supply 
such  situations  as  wUl  afford  opportunity  for  beneficial  obser- 
vations of  passion  without  the  need  to  seek  them  out  in  cu-cum- 
stances  of  real  life.  The  drama,  more  than  any  other  branch 
of  letters,  must  therefore  aim  at  "the  expression  of  passion, 
genuine  and  true  to  Nature"  (p.  6).  The  stage  has  often,  and 
especially  of  late,  wandered  far  from  this  its  proper  function. 
Poets  have  given  their  chief  attention  to  emulation  and  imi- 
tation of  the  masterpieces  of  the  past  and  "have  been  tempted 
to  prefer  the  embellishments  of  poetry  to  faithfully  delineated 
nature"  (p.  8).  They  have  concentrated  theii*  efforts  on  strong 
outlines  of  character,  bold  features  of  passion,  grand  vicissi- 
tudes of  fortune  and  striking  dramatic  situations,  "neglecting 
the  boundless  variety  of  nature"  (p.  8).  In  order  to  offset  this 
tendency  of  the  stage  Miss  Baillie  planned  to  "write  a  series 
of  tragedies,  of  simpler  construction,  less  embellished  with 
poetical  decorations,  less  constrained  by  that  lofty  seriousness 
which  has  so  generally  been  considered  as  necessary  for  the 
support  of  tragic,  and  in  which  the  chief  object  should  be  to 


1  P.  IV,  p.  337,  note  1. 

•  The  dramatic  and  Poetical  Works  of  Joanna  Baillie,  1851. 


The  Drama  of  the  Romantic  Period.  7 

delineate  the  progress  of  the  higher  passions  in  the  human 
breast"  (p.  10 — 11).  Complementary  to  the  tragedies  there 
was  planned  a  series  of  comedies  illustrating  the  same  passions 
but  "in  such  situations,  and  attended  with  such  circumstances, 
as  take  off  their  sublimity"  (p.  11).  There  is  very  little  action 
in  the  plays  in  order  that  attention  may  not  be  distracted  from 
the  central  passion,  and  there  is  extreme  simplicity  of  plot, 
without  episode,  sub -plot,  or  variety  of  any  kind  that  could 
interfere  with  the  requisite  concentration. 

De  Montfort  is  a  delineation  of  the  passion  of  hatred. 
The  protagonist  cherishes  mortal  hate  towards  Rezenvelt  who 
shortly  before  the  opening  of  the  play  had  spared  his  life. 
When  De  Montfort  hears  that  Rezenvelt  is  about  to  marry  his 
sister  Jane,  who  has  been  attempting  to  bring  about  a  recon- 
ciliation, he  deliberately  and  cowardly  murders  him  in  a  lonely 
forest  near  a  convent.  He  is  captured,  but  overcome  with 
remorse  and  shame  anticipates  justice  in  the  arms  of  his  sister, 
who  pronounces  a  tribute  to  his  virtues,  a  lamentation  over  his 
one  crime,  and  a  solemn  warning  to  others. 

Were  Miss  Baillie's  theory  of  tragedy  tenable,  De  Montfort 
would  certainly  be  a  great  tragedy.  It  exhibits  the  passion  of 
ungovernable  and  soul-controlling  hate  with  considerable  power. 
B}'  emphasizing  the  love  of  De  Montfort  for  his  sister  and  his 
consequent  blind  rage  at  the  report  of  her  betrothal  to  his 
enemy,  it  accounts  satisfactorily  for  the  murderous  impulses 
which  overbear  all  good  instincts.  The  lack  of  poetry  is  in 
accord  with  Miss  Baillie's  design,  and  in  spite  of  the  temptations 
of  the  theme  there  is  no  bombast.  The  lesser  characters  are 
all  given  some  measure  of  individuality.  The  emphasis  upon 
a  single  passion,  the  lack  of  episode,  directness  of  action, 
simplicity  of  diction,  and  individuality  of  characterization,  are 
certainly  well  exemplified  in  this  play.  Its  defects  are  those 
inherent  in  the  theory  according  to  which  the  play  was  con- 
structed. The  pruning  away  of  all  supplementary  traits  from 
"unaccommodated  man"  is  very  faulty  psychology.  No  passion 
goes  "sounding  on,  a  dim  and  perilous  way",  subject  to  none 
of  the  cross-currents  of  conflicting  desires  nor  swerving  in  its 
course  at  the  bidding  of  other  instincts.  Moreover  the  attempt 
to  exhibit  the  subtleties   of  passion  through  the  words  of  the 


8  Chapter  One. 

protagonist  results  in  an  undramatic  monologue  during  much 
of  the  time.  During  four  acts  there  is  almost  complete  lack 
of  action,  no  goal  towards  which  the  purposes  of  the  prota- 
gonist are  moving ;  and  then  in  hours  of  fury  the  murder  is  accom- 
plished, the  protagonist  captured,  and  an  edifjdng  end  is  made.  The 
setting  in  a  German  town  shows  the  influence  of  contemporary 
fashion.  A  further  concession  is  the  requiem  sung  by  the  nuns 
over  the  newly  covered  grave  (Act  V,  Scene  i).  The  entire  fifth 
act  is,  indeed,  in  a  subdued  "Gothic"  tone.  German  sentimen- 
tality is  apparent,  with  its  characteristic  readiness  to  let  chari- 
table impulses  (compare  the  typical  Fielding-esque  ''goodness  of 
heart")  weigh  more  in  the  estimate  of  a  man  than  his  pride, 
jealousy,   and  murderous  hate.  ^ 

Ethwald,  an  historical  play  in  two  parts,  portrays  the 
passion  of  ambition.  The  hero  is  the  younger  son  of  a  petty 
thane,  who  through  bravery  and  ability  comes  to  be  commander 
of  the  Mercian  army.  Urged  on  by  ambition  he  visits  the 
"Mystic  sisters"  who  look  "into  the  stretch  of  dark  futurity" 
and  prophesy  that  he  shall  be  king,  but  shall  come  to  a  dire 
end.  He  leads  a  successful  rebellion  against  the  old  king,  is 
crowned,  engages  in  wars  of  conquest,  and  at  last,  weighed 
down  by  enormous  crimes,  is  assassinated.  This  is  the  barest 
outline  of  the  course  of  the  long  story. 

The  play  is  too  long,  but  the  passion  depicted  required 
a  growth  of  years  from  vague  desire  to  entire  obsession.  The 
debt  to  Shakespeare  is  great  ^  and  is  an  interesting  illustration 
of  the  power  of  the  native  tradition  in  the  midst  of  the  German 
furore.  The  comments  which  I  have  made  upon  De  Montfort 
apply  also  to  Ethwald.  There  is  the  same  simplicity  of  language, 
carried  to  a  point  of  baldness  where  the  least  simile  is  wel- 
comed.   There  is  the  same  emphasis  upon  the  central  passion. 

In  her  Introductory  Discourse,  Miss  Baillie  asked  for  the 


^  Miss  Baillie  foresaw  this  ethical  objection  and  attempted  to  forestall 
it  in  a  concluding  note  (p.  104),  but  the  impression  stated  in  my  text  remains. 

*  To  Macbeth  throughout  the  play,  especially  in  the  cavern  scene  with 
the  "Mystic  sisters"  and  in  the  final  attack  upon  the  castle;  to  Haynlet  in 
the  incident  of  the  appearance  of  the  king's  deserted  sweetheart  gone  mad; 
to  King  John  and  Richard  III,  and  possibly  to  Marlowe's  Edward  II,  in 
the  scenes  showing  the  young  Edward  in  prison. 


The  Drama  of  the  Romantic  Period.  9 

approval  rather  of  her  friends  than  of  posterity.  Her  wish 
has  been  granted.  One  cannot  repeat  to-day  the  praise  lavish- 
ed on  her  by  some  of  her  contemporaries.  I  have  already 
quoted  Byron's  remarks  on  her  dramas.  Scott  wrote  often  and 
generously  of  her,  and  many  others  echoed  these  great  plaudits. 
Hazlitt  was  more  clear-sighted.  "Her  tragedies  and  comedies", 
he  wrote  \  "are  heresies  in  the  dramatic  art.  She  is  a  Uni- 
tarian in  poetry.  With  her  the  passions  are,  like  the  French 
Republic,  one  and  indivisible:  thej"  are  not  so  in  nature,  or 
in  Shakespeare."  Joanna  Baillie  is  of  considerable  significance 
in  the  study  of  the  Byronic  drama.  Her  aim  at  dignity  and 
simplicity  of  style,  portrayal  of  passion  rather  than  external 
incident,  and  directness  of  plot,  is  in  line  with  the  reform  later 
advocated  by  Byron.  Her  plays  are  a  step  in  the  direction 
from  superficiality  to  vital  truth." 

In  the  dedicatory  Epistle  to  The  Fall  of  Robespierre  (1794) 
Coleridge  admits  the  influence  of  the  sensational  drama,  his 
aim  being  "to  develope  the  characters  of  the  chief  actors  on 
a  vast  scale  of  horrors".  *  This  he  fails  signally  to  accomplish. 
The  play  shows,  along  with  some  obvious  imitation  of  Shake- 
speare, a  tendency  to  rhetorical  declamation,  a  portrayal  of 
the  type  rather  than  the  individual,  and  a  concentration  of 
the  action  immediately  before  the  catastrophe,  with  narrative 
exposition  of  earlier  events,  which  betray  French  influence. 
Philosophically  it  is  of  its  time,  and  should  be  compared  with 
Southe3^'s  Wat  Tyler  and  Wordsworth's  Borderers.  The  latter 
play  depicts  the  passion  of  jealousy.  Schiller  is  the  inspiration 
of  its  plot  and  form,  Godwin  of  its  philosophy.  Individualism, 
democracy,  the  revolt  from  social  conventions,  and  the  return 
to  nature,  are  its  themes.*    To  the  power  of  SchUler,  Coleridge 


^  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets,  London,  Dent,  p.  147. 

^  For  convenient  analyses  of  Joanna  Baillie's  plays  see  Genest,  VIII,  333  f. 

*  Complete  Poetical  Works,  ed.  E.  H.  Coleridge,  Oxford,  The  Clarendon 
Press,  1912,  II,  495. 

"■  Poetical  Works,  ed.  W.  Knight,  London,  Macmillan,  1896,  I,  112  f. 
Though  written  in  1795—6,  and  therefore  important  for  the  study  of  Words- 
worth's development,  this  play  was  not  published  till  1842.  It  has  therefore 
no  significance  for  the  study  of  Byron's  dramas.  On  the  influence  of  Schiller, 
especially  The  Robbers,  see  Th.  Rea,  Schiller's  Dramas  and  Poems  in 
England,  London,  Unwin,  1906,  p.  22  f. 


10  Chapter  One. 

bore  testimony  in  the  sonnet  To  the  Author  of  ''The  Robbers' % 
in  a  note  to  which  he  tells  how  he  read  the  play  for  the  first 
time  on  "a  Winter  midnight  —  the  wind  high,  .  .  .  The  readers 
of  Schiller  will  conceive  what  I  felt.  Schiller  introduces  no 
supernatural  beings ;  yet  his  human  beings  agitate  and  astonish 
more  than  all  the  goblin  rout  —  even  of  Shakespeare.'"  It 
was  at  the  height  of  the  German  furore  that  Coleridge  trans- 
lated The  Piccolomini  and  The  Death  of  Wallenstein ,  which 
perhaps  rank  with  Schlegel's  Shakespeare  among  the  gi'eatest 
of  tran-slations. 

Coleridge's  most  notable  play  shows  a  blending  of  several 
influences,  but  it  is  to  be  classed  with  the  Plays  of  the  Passions 
as  an  effort  to  portray  the  power  of  overwhelming  emotion. 
Osorio  was  written  in  1797,  "expressly  for  the  stage,  at  the 
instigation  and  with  the  encouragement  of  Mr.  Sheridan,  by 
whom,  however,  it  was  not  deemed  suitable  for  that  purpose."^ 
In  1813  it  was  remodeled  and  produced  at  Drury  Lane,  under 
the  title  of  Remorse,^  when  it  had  considerable  success.  Byron 
was  largely  responsible  for  this  production.  *  The  play  stands 
out  in  pleasing  contrast  to  the  typical  stage-play  of  the  time. 
There  are  in  it  numerous  passages  of  genuine  and  beautiful 
^  poetry.  It  won  Byron's  support  chiefly  from  its  attempt  to 
"^  depict  tragic  passion,  not  horrific  incident.  The  error  is  made 
of  singling  out  one  passion  and  portraying  it  as  almost  whoUy 
unrelated  to  the  complex  mass  of  rival  emotions  and  traits 
that  together  make  up  human  nature.  The  emphasis  upon 
motive  is  that  afterwards  adopted  by  Byron,  and  the  conse- 
quence of  this  emphasis  is  the  same  in  both  cases  —  almost 
complete  stagnation  of  the  action  through  long  stretches  of 
dialogue.'*  The  real  action  is  spiritual,  the  progress  towards 
remorse  of  the  protagonist's  soul.    Hence  the  play  at  once  lost 

*  Complete  Poetical  Works  I,  72. 

^  Dramatic   Works  of  S.  T.  Coleridge,  ed.  Derwent  Coleridge,  p.  v. 
Of.  Com,plete  Poetical  Works,  II,  812. 

*  Both  versions   are  included  in  Complete  Poetical  Works,  II,  518  f . 
and  812  f. 

*  Wordsworth  erroneously  ascribed  its  production  to   "the  kindness  of 
Mr.  Sheridan":  Poetical  Works,  I,  113. 

*  Two  of  the  situations  are  dramatically  satisfying:  Act  II,  Sc.  ii;  Act 
IV,  Sc.  i. 


The  Drama  of  the  Romantic  Period.  11 

control  of  the  stage.  But  this  very  introspection  must  have 
been  a  factor  in  winning  the  approval  of  Byron.  Coleridge 
did  not  despise  the  "Gothic"  trappings  of  the  terrific  school, 
and  he  introduces  incantation,  paynims,  castles,  caverns,  dun- 
geons, etc.  Bemorse  shows  also  the  influence  of  Schiller^  and 
Shakespeare.^  With  this  romanticism  there  is  mixed  a  rather 
incongruous  politico-philosophic  strain  characteristic  at  once  of 
Coleridge  and  of  the  period.  Byron  welcomed  Remorse  as  the 
best  play  "for  very  many  years"  (LJ.  Ill,  191),  and  so  it  was. 
Its  dignity,  its  lack  of  bombast,  its  real  and  high  poetic  merit, 
its  refusal  to  accumulate  horrors  on  horror's  head  even  while 
complying  with  the  taste  of  the  time,  its  aim  to  present  motive 
instead  of  mechanical  action,  to  portray,  however  imperfectly, 
the  struggles  of  human  volition,  —  all  put  it  on  a  relatively 
high  level  of  achievement. 

Coleridge's  second  attempt  to  win  success  upon  the  stage 
was  a  failure.  At  Byron's  suggestion  that  a  tragedy  might 
be  welcomed  by  the  public  (LJ.  Ill,  191),  Zapolya  was  sub- 
mitted to  the  Drury  Lane  Committee,  but  was  rejected.^  The 
interval  of  twent}^  j^ears  between  the  first  and  second  acts 
destroys  the  continuity  of  the  action.  This  Coleridge  realized, 
and  sought  to  shelter  himself  behind  a  comparison  with  The 
Winter's  Tale  and  by  dividing  the  play  into  two  parts.  The 
piece  is  not  without  merit.  It  is  a  typically  romantic  play, 
the  action  passing  in  Illyria  during  the  Middle  Ages;  but  it 
avoids  the  customary  mechanical  accessories  of  the  "Gothic" 
drama.  The  inspiration  of  the  play  is  Shakespearean,  super- 
ficially obvious  by  the  large  borrowings  from  Cymbeline,  As 
You  Like  It,  The  Wintei-'s  Tale,  and  The  Tempest,  but  seen  also 
in  the  undertone  of  love  and  beauty  and  ripe  experience,  which 
connects  it  wiih  the  latest  plays  of  Shakespeare. 


*  From  Schiller's  Ghostseer  (the  source  of  Byron's  Oscar  of  Alva) 
Coleridge  took  the  story  of  the  man  who  murders  his  brother  to  obtain  his 
bride,  but  in  Osorio  the  victim  escapes  and  returns  (as  in  TJie  Bobbers). 
See  Brandl,  p.  168;  cf.  Rea,  p.  24  f.  A  like  motive  is  used  in  Beddoes' 
Death's  Jest-Book. 

'  Shakespearean  reminiscences  abound;  there  is  little  direct  borrowing. 

*  Cf.  LJ.  V,  442,  and  cf.  James  Gillman,  Life  of  Coleridge,  London, 
1838,  I,  266  f. 


12  Chapter  One. 

When  Zapolya  was  found  not  "feasible",  Maturin's  Bertram  ^ 
was  accepted  in  its  stead,  largely  through  the  good  offices  of  Scott 
and  Byron.  The  latter  wrote  to  Moore  (LJ.  IV,  90),  "I  take 
some  credit  to  myself  for  having  done  my  best  to  bring  out 
Bertram,^'  and  he  considered  Maturin  "a  ver}^  clever  fellow." 
It  is  better  fitted  than  Zapolya  for  the  stage  though  infinitely 
below  it  in  poetic  merit.  The  action  is  direct  and  swift,  the 
style  in  harmony  with  the  prevailing  mode.  Despite  the  extra- 
ordinary, accumulation  of  "Gothic"  accoutrements,  amounting 
almost  to  a  caricature  of  the  class,  there  is  a  feeling  for  the 
fundamental  springs  of  emotion  for  which  one  would  look  in 
vain  in  the  plays  of  Lewis.  The  play  is  essentially  Byronic 
in  its  unrestrained  sweep  of  passion ;  the  protagonist  is  another 
Lara,  though  Maturin  borrowed  the  hero-villain  type  not  so 
much  from  Byron  as  from  Mrs,  Radchffe,  in  whose  books  he 
quarried  along  with  Byron.  Of  Maturin's  later  work  Byron 
thought  little.  ManueV  he  called  "the  absurd  work  of  a  clever 
man"  (LJ.  IV,  137),  "as  heavy  a  nightmare  as  was  ever  be- 
strode by  Indigestion"  (LJ.  IV,  151). 

The  success  of  Remorse  caused  a  revival  of  the  poetic 
drama  in  which  several  streams  of  influence  merged.  This 
was  furthered  by  the  genius  and  popularity  of  Edmund  Kean, 
who  made  his  first  London  appearance  in  January,  1814.  For 
several  years  there  was  a  temporary  compromise  between  liter- 
ature and  the  stage.  Younger  playwrights  were  encouraged; 
taste  was  improved  to  an  extent  which  made  the  presentation 
even  of  Byron's  dramas  a  matter  of  financial  speculation  despite 
^his  own  vigorous  opposition.  It  gave  Shelley  arguments  for 
the  success  of  The  Cenci.  "I  am  exceedingly  interested",  he 
wrote*,  "in  the  question  of  whether  this  attempt  of  mine  will 
succeed  or  no.  I  am  strongly  inclined  to  the  affirmative  at 
present,  founding  my  hopes  on  this,  that  as  a  composition,  it 
is  certainly  not  inferior  to  any  of  the  modern  plays  that  have 


*  Bertram;  or  the  Castle  of  St.  Aldobrand.  A  Tragedy.  .  .  .  By  the 
Rev.  B.  C.  Maturin.     Oxberry's  edition,  London,  1827. 

^  See  John  Doran,    Their  Majesties'  Servants,   Boston,   Niccolls,   III, 
303!.,  for  an  account  of  the  failure  of  Manuel  on  the  stage. 

*  The  Letters  of  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley,   ed.  Roger  Ingpen,   London 
Pitman,  1909,  11,  698. 


The  Drama  of  the  Romantic  Period.  13 

been  acted,  with  the  exception  of  Bemorse;  that  the  interests 
of  the  plot  is  [sic]  incredibly  greater  and  more  real",  etc.  Even 
Keats,  though  he  acknowledges  his  ambition  "to  make  as  great 
a  revolution  in  modem  dramatic  writing  as  Kean  has  done  in 
acting"  \  must  have  been  encouraged  in  the  composition  of 
Otho  the  Great  by  the  thought  that  the  poetic  drama  was  coming 
into  its  own.  To  the  same  innovation  may  be  traced  the  suc- 
cesses of  Bulwer-Lytton  twenty  years  later.  With  the  failure 
of  Browning's  Blot  on  the  'Scutcheon  in  184-3  the  revival  of 
romantic  tragedy  came  to  an  end.  Now  at  length  in  our  own 
day  there  begin  to  be  fitful  signs  of  its  reappearance. 

Among  the  writers  of  poetic  dramas  who  came  into  some 
prominence  after  1816  was  Henry  Hart  Milman.  Byron  had 
>  at  one  time  a  high  opinion  of  Milman's  poetic  powers,  though 
he  distrusted  his  politics  and  profession.  Of  many  references 
to  him,  the  following  are  the  more  notable.  "Milman  will  do, 
if  he  don't  cant  too  much,  nor  imitate  Southey :  the  fellow  has 
poesy  in  him;  but  he  is  envious,  and  unhappy,  as  all  the  en- 
vious are.  Still  he  is  among  the  best  of  the  day"  (LJ.  V,  362). 
"They  have  brought  out  Fazio  with  great  and  deserved  success 
at  Govent  Garden:  that's  a  good  sign"  (LJ.  IV,  210).  The  Fall 
of  Jerusalem  Byron  thought  a  "very  noble"  poem,  adding  "I 
greatly  admire  Milman"  (LJ.  V,  54).  Later  "the  impression 
that  Milman  had  influenced  Murray  against  continuing  the 
pubHcation  of  Don  Juan"  and  "the  mistaken  belief  that  it  was 
Milman  who  had  written  the  article  in  the  Quarterly  which 
'killed  John  Keats'"  occasioned  the  virulent  attack  upon  the 
"poet-priest"  in  a  famous  passage  of  Bon  Juan.  ^ 

Fazio*  is  the  story  of  a  wronged  woman,  who  in  sudden 
jealousy  betrays  the  fact  that  her  husband's  wealth  was  acquired 
by  robbery.  The  momentary  impulse  past,  she  pleads  for  her 
husband's  life.  But  it  is  too  late;  he  is  executed,  and  the 
play  ends  with  the  widow's  denunciation  of  her  rival,  and  her 
death.  The  play  won  success  on  the  stage.  Indeed  even  to- 
day an  actress  of  power  might  succeed  in  the  part  of  Bianca. 


*  Letters  of  John  Keats,  ed.  H.  B.  Forman,  LondoD,  Reeves  and  Turner, 
1895,  p.  364. 

«  Bon  Juan  XI,  58  and  note  1;  P.  VI,  445. 

»  Poetical  Works  of  .  .  .  H.  H.  Milman,  1839,  UI,  117  f. 


l^  Chapter  One. 

In  Fazio  many  of  the  qualities  approved  by  Byron  are  present; 
but  its  virtues  are  mainly  negative.  The  passionate  subject 
is  handled  with  notable  restraint;  the  advance  of  the  action  is 
regular  and  the  construction  logical;  the  characters  are  con- 
sistently, if  feebly,  drawn;  the  verse,  though  containing  no 
poetry  of  great  merit,  is  correct  and  pure.  There  is  a  praise- 
worthy moderation  of  tone  at  a  time  when  extravagance  was 
the  fashion. 

The  Fall  oj  Jerusalem''  is  founded  largely  on  Josephus. 
It  presents  only  the  last  stages  of  the  siege  and  culminates  in 
the  capture  of  the  city.  There  is  no  division  into  acts,  but 
merely  a  succession  of  scenes  in  and  neai^  Jerusalem.  There 
is  an  occasional  chorus,  and  the  characters  break  now  and 
then  into  lyrical  measures.  The  influence  of  Greek  tragedy  is 
obvious.  The  fact  that  it  followed  what  Byron  considered  "the 
best  models"  for  dramatic  composition,  that  it  was  confessedly 
not  designed  for  the  stage,  that  there  was  an  effort  at  com- 
pression of  time,  and  that  the  subject  was  historical,  all  are 
reasons  for  Byron's  commendation  of  the  play. 

Among  the  "intellectual  children"  of  Remorse  by  far  the  most 
important  is  The  Cencl  Byron's  comments  upon  this  great 
play  are  disappointingly  meagre  and  unappreciative.  To  Hoppner 
he  wrote  (LJ.  V,  74),  "His  tragedy  is  sad  work;  but  the  sub- 
ject renders  it  so",  and  to  Shelley  himself  (LJ.  V,  268),  "I  read 
Cenci  —  but,  besides  that  I  think  the  subject  essentially  mw- 
dramatic,  I  am  not  a  great  admu'er  oi  our  old  dramatists  as 
models.  I  deny  that  the  Enghsh  have  hitherto  had  a  dram.a 
at  all.  Your  Cenci,  however,  was  a  work  of  power  and  poetry". 
SheUey's  comment  on  this  criticism  was  made  in  a  letter  to 
Leigh  Hunt.  "Certainly",  he  wrote  ^  "if  Marino  Faliero  is  a 
drama,  Cenci  is  not  —  but  that  between  ourselves."  How 
account  for  Byron's  curiously  warpt  judgment  of  the  gi-eatest 
play  of  the  century?  It  is  exphcable  on  several  grounds,  (i) 
The  Cenci,  though  it  preserves  admirably  the  essential  unity 
of  interest,  is  not  written  in  accordance  with  a  narrow  inter- 
pretation of  those  dramatic  laws  which  Byron  considered  irre- 


^  Loc.  cit.,  I,  1  f. 
""  Letters,  U,  910. 


The  Drama  of  the  Romantic  Period.  15 

fragable.  There  are  only  three  more  scenes  than  in  Marino 
Faliero,  but  the  fourth  act  passes  at  the  Castle  of  Petrella,  not 
in  Rome.  Yet  the  spirit  of  the  unity  of  time  is  preserved, 
for  there  is  a  compression  which  enables  the  historical  events 
of  more  than  a  year  to  pass  in  a  few  days,  (ii)  The  Eliza- 
bethan inspiration  is  very  apparent.  The  scene  in  the  castle 
after  the  murder  owes  something  to  Macbeth,  the  curse  of  the 
Count  on  Beatrice  is  modeled  upon  Lear's  curse,  Giacomo's 
comparison  of  the  dying  lamp  to  his  father  had  its  source  in 
Othello.  Bates  thinks  he  detects  indebtedness  to  Middleton's 
Changeling.  The  trial  of  Beatrice  certainly  resembles  that  in 
Webster's  White  Devil  (III,  i).'  Such  marks  of  indebtedness 
to  the  "set  of  mountebanks"  of  course  met  with  Byron's  con- 
demnation, (iii)  The  Cenci  deals  with  an  abnormal  situation, 
not  with  average  humanity.  Here  it  differs  utterly  from  the 
Byronic  historical  plays.  Count  Cenci  is  impossibly  wicked; 
he  is  one  of  those  "outrageous  ranting  villains"  whom  Byron 
expressly  abjured.  He  closely  resembles,  but  in  even  more 
exaggerated  form,  the  heroic- villains  of  the  romantic  drama, 
Bertram,  Oswald,  Conrad,  and  so  many  more,  (iv)  In  spite 
of  his  own  hostile  attitude  towards  the  priesthood,  Byron  was 
probably  suspicious  of  SheUey's  representation  of  the  clergy 
and  certainly  objected  to  his  blatant  atheism,  (v)  More  tech- 
nical objections  may  have  occurred  to  Byron  —  the  substi- 
tution of  favorite  abstract  ideas  embodied  in  realistic  form  for 
true  objective  characterization  ^,  the  theatrically  impossible  length 
of  some  of  the  soliloquies,  the  halting  nature  of  the  action  — 
but  to  have  specified  them  would  have  been  to  expose  himself 
to  the  same  charges.  All  this  explains,  but  it  does  not  justify, 
Byron's  adverse  criticism  of  the  play.  His  opinion  remains  a 
striking  instance  of  failure  to  do  justice  to  a  great  work;  but 
it  must  be  added  that  Byron  told  Medwin  (p.  95)  that  The  Cenci 
was  "perhaps  the  best  tragedy  modern  times  have  produced." 


^^  E  S.  Bates,  A  Study  of  Shelley's  Cenci,  New  York,  The  Columbia 
University  Press,  1908,  p.  54  f.,  where  minor  parallelisms  will  also  be  found. 
In  my  discussion  of  The  Cenci,  I  am  in  several  instances  indebted  to  this 
monograph. 

-  There  are  critics  (  e.  g.  Mr.  CIutton-Broek)  who   consider  The  Cenci 
almost  as  thorough  an  allegory  as  Prometheus  Unbound. 


16  Chapter  One. 

The  Cenci  is  one  of  the  large  number  of  plays  that  show 
the  increasing  strength  of  the  native  influence.  In  his  preface 
Shelley  wrote,  "Our  great  ancestors  the  ancient  English  poets 
are  the  writers,  a  study  of  whom  might  incite  us  to  do  that 
for  our  own  age  which  they  have  done  for  theirs."  The  revival 
of  interest  in  the  lesser  Elizabethan  dramatists  is  an  important 
factor  in  the  romantic  drama.  Throughout  the  "German" 
furore  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  had  remained  popular,  and 
the  pages  of  Genest  record  an  endless  series  of  revivals.  Ot- 
way,  too,  was  occasionally  performed,  as  were  one  or  two  of 
the  old  comedies.  Something  of  the  spirit  of  the  old  di'ama 
begins  to  come  back  into  the  many  imitations  towards  the 
close  of  the  eighteenth  century.  William  Godwin's  Antonio 
was  produced  by  Kemble  in  1800,  but  had  no  success  at  all.^ 
It  is  heavy  and  uninspired  and  is  of  historical  interest  only  as 
an  early  attempt  at  the  style  of  the  old  dramatists.  Its  suc- 
cessor, Faulkner  (1807),  was  equally  dull  and  was  never  per- 
formed. 

The  Elizabethan  revival  can  be  dated  from  the  publication 
of  Lamb's  Specimens  of  the  Dramatic  Poets  (1808),  It  was 
furthered  by  Coleridge's  lectures  in  1810  and  later  years. 
Gifford's  editions  of  Massinger,  Jonson,  and  Ford,  and  his 
comments  on  other  dramatists,  aided  in  spreading  knowledge 
of  these  half-forgotten  poets.  The  lectures  of  WiUiam  Hazlitt 
(1817 — 1821)  were  also  of  importance. 

Lamb's  influence  upon  the  drama  was  almost  wholly  due 
to  his  ability  as  a  critic,  exerted  historically  in  commentaries 
upon  EUzabethan  and  Restoration  plays,  and  practicallj'  in 
criticisms  of  current  theatrical  productions.  At  his  best,  as  in 
the  gi^eat  essay  On  the  Tragedies  of  Shakespeare",  his  work, 
especially  in  appreciation  of  nice  distinctions  of  character  and 
motive,  is  almost  unsurpassed,  though  his  thought  never  reaches 
the  profundity  of  Coleridge.  His  experiments  in  dramatic  com- 
position are  of  little  value.  John  WoodviV  (1802),  the  best 
of  his  plays,   might  be  classed   with  the  Plays  of  the  Passions 


1  Cf.  Doran,  III,  298. 

^  Collected  Works  of  Charles  Lamb,  ed.  A.  Ainger,  New  York,  Arm- 
strong, 1890,  II,  220  f. 
»  Ibid.,  II,  25  f. 


The  Drama  of  the  Romantic  Period.  17 

in  that  it  is  a  study  of  the  workings  of  a  single  passion,  but 
its  historical  interest  is  greater  as  one  of  the  early  essays  in 
the  old  style.  The  intermixture  of  prose  and  verse,  the  use 
of  archaic  words  and  phrases,  the  lax  construction,  the  employ- 
ment of  types  in  the  dramatis  personae,  are  the  signs  of  this 
Elizabethanism/  The  piece  may  be  described  as  feebly  good. 
Lamb's  other  plan's  need  not  here  be  considered  at  all. 

This  tentative  stage  in  the  revival  of  the  Elizabethan  style 
passed  and  the  movement  gathered  force.  It  is  evident  in 
Coleridge's  plays,  and  still  more  so  in  Keats's  Otho  the  Great 
and  his  fi'agment  of  King  Stephen.  These  are  both  of  secondary 
importance  among  Keats's  works,  serving  chiefly  to  show  the 
strength  of  the  attraction  of  the  stage  for  the  poets  of  the 
time;  and  as  both  remained  unpublished  till  Lord  Houghton's 
volume  of  1848,  it  is  unlikel}'  that  B3Ton  so  much  as  knew 
of  their  existence.  The  strange  manner  in  which  Otho  the  Great 
was  written  (G.  A.  Brown  outHned  the  action  and  characters, 
scene  by  scene,  and  Keats  endowed  his  purposes  with  words) ^ 
makes  it  unlikely  that  Keats  proceeded  on  any  definite  plan 
of  composition  or  according  to  any  dramatic  theory,  but  the 
inspiration  is  distinctly  Elizabethan.  Were  one  ignorant  of 
the  method  of  composition  emploj^ed,  it  would  be  easier  to 
take  the  piece  quite  seriously.  King  Stephen  is  a  fragment  of 
fine  promise,  and  in  versification  and  imagination  of  almost 
Shakespearean  richness. 

With  Procter  the  Elizabethanism  becomes  very  definite. 
He  is  a  disciple  of  Fletcher.  Of  Mirandola  (1821),  his  only 
tragedy,  Byron  wrote  (LJ.  V,  217),  **I  just  see  .  .  .  that  there 
is  a  new  traged}-  of  great  expectation,  by  Barry  Cornwall.  .  .  . 
I  liked  the  Dramatic  Scenes.  ...  I  think  him  ver}-  likely 
to  produce  a  good  tragedy,  if  he  keep  to  a  natural  style,  and 
not  play  tricks  to  form  Harlequinades  for  an  audience.  .  .  . 
If  I  had  been  aware  that  he  w^as  in  that  line,  I  should  have 
spoken  of  him  in  the  preface  to  Marino  Faliero:  he  wiU  do  a 
World's  wonder  if  he  produce  a  great  tragedy."  But  when 
Procter  sent  him  a  copy   of  Mirandola  Byron's  onl}-  comment 

•  Cf.  Walter  Pater,   Appreciations,   London,  Macmillan,  1911,  p.  113. 
^  See  The  Poetns  of  John  Keats,  ed.  E.  de  S61incourt,  New  York,  Dodd, 
Mead,  1909,  p.  552. 

Hesperia,  B.  3.  2 


18  Chapter  One. 

was,  "Barry  Cornwall  will  do  better  by  and  bye,  I  dare  say, 
if  he  don't  get  spoilt  by  green  tea  and  the  praises  of  Penton- 
ville  and  Paradise  Row"  (LJ.  V,  362).  It  is  not  remarkable 
that  Byron  showed  no  enthusiasm  over  Mirandola,  which,  though 
a  piece  of  considerable  merit  and  excellently  adapted  to  the 
stage,  where  it  had  a  successful  "run",  is  constructed,  as  ex- 
pressly stated  in  the  Prologue,  on  the  model  of  the  Eliza- 
bethans. It  is  an  Italian  tragedy  of  passion,  one  of  the  long 
series  from  such  plays  as  Webster's  tragedies  to  Swinburne's 
Duke  of  Gandia.  The  story  is  of  a  father  and  son,  rivals  in 
love.  The  effect  of  the  reaction  from  the  bombast  and  extra- 
vagance of  the  plays  produced  before  Remorse  is  apparent  in 
Procter's  play,  which  shows  much  moderation  in  tone  in  spite 
of  the  strained  and  unnatural  situation.  But  there  is  lack  of 
insight  into  the  depths  of  human  nature,  there  is  no  foundation 
in  philosophy,  and  there  is  hardly  any  poetry  except  faint 
Elizabethan  echoes,  little  worth,  — 

"A  few  plain  words,  honestly  told. 
Like  those  his  mightier  masters  spoke  of  old."^ 

The  Dramatic  Scenes"^,  which  Byron  "liked",  are  of  less  note. 
Only  the  six  original  scenes  are  of  interest  here;  many  more 
were  published  long  after  Byron's  death.  Ludovico  Sforza  tells 
of  a  woman's  revenge  for  the  murder  of  her  lover.  It  is  found- 
ed on  fact.  The  central  situation  is  copied  from  The  Maid's 
Tragedy,  Act  V,  Scene  ii.  Lisander  and  lone  is  an  attempt  in  the 
pastoral-mythological  style,  in  which  Landor  was  later  success- 
ful. Juan  is  a  study  of  sudden  jealousy,  and  owes  something 
to  Othello.  The  Way  to  Conquer,  a  trifle,  shows  a  magnani- 
mous prince  forgiving  one  who  had  wronged  him.  The  Broken 
Heart  dramatizes  Boccaccio's  story  of  the  lover  who  returns 
home  to  find  his  mistress  wedded  to  another.  The  title  is 
borrowed  from  Ford.  The  Falcon  *  relates  the .  same  tale  of 
Boccaccio    afterwards   used   by  Tennyson.     Procter's   piece  is 


^  Prologue,  p.  vi.  There  is  some  resemblance  between  this  play  and 
the  Paolo  and  Francesca  of  Stephen  Phillips. 

^  Dramatic  Scenes  with  other  poems  .  .  .  by  Barry  Cornwall, 
Boston,  1857. 

*  Compare  The  Works  of  Lord  Tennyson,  edited  by  his  son,  New 
York,  Macmillan,  1909,  VI,  219  f. 


The  Drama  of  the  Romantic  Period.  19 

even  slighter  than  Tennyson's.  The  latter  poet  must  have  seen 
Procter's  Falcon  though  he  apparently  never  acknowledged 
any  debt  to  it.' 

Shortly  before  Byron's  death  tlie  result  of  this  devotion 
to  the  older  dramatists  began  to  be  apparent,  and  the  high 
tide  of  Elizabethanism  came  during  the  decade  before  the 
emergence  of  Tennj'son.  This  is  really  beyond  the  limits  of 
the  present  study ^  but  two  more  paragraphs  will  round  out  the 
subject.  The  interest  and  appreciation  of  Coleridge,  Keats, 
and  Shelley  developed  into  the  enthusiastic  homage  of  Procter, 
Darley,  Beddoes,  and  WeUs.  Beddoes  is  no  mere  imitator;  in 
him  one  can  discern  essential  kinship  of  soul  with  the  darkest 
of  the  Elizabethans;  he  is  a  reincarnation  of  Webster ^  There 
is  no  parallel  during  the  century  to  the  grimly  grotesque 
strength  of  imagination,  the  gi'eat  clashing  epithets,  the  "storm 
and  wildness"  of  his  masterpiece,  Death's  Jest-Booh^  It  never 
has  been,  nor  can  ever  be,  popular,  but  by  the  few  it  will 
always  be  appreciated.  It  is  a  product  of  the  Renascence  of 
Wonder.  There  are  examples  of  such  work  in  Poe,  The  Masque 
of  the  Bed  Death  for  instance ;  and  in  France,  in  such  a  poem  as 
Tine  Charogne^  Baudelaire  got  a  somewhat  similar  effect.  Though 
more  Websterian   than  Webster ^  Beddoes   disapproved  of  the 

^  '"Hazlitt  first  suggested  the  story  as  suitable  for  stage  treatment" 
{Works  of  Lord  Tennyson  VI,  539).  See  further  on  Procter,  Genest,  IX,  102; 
Letters  of  the   Wordsivorth  Family,  ed.  Knight,  II,  145. 

^  The  Elizabethan  Revival,  which  I  have  been  able  barely  to  outline, 
is  worthy  of  careful  investigation. 

^  See  Henry  Wood,  "T.  L.  Beddoes,  A  Survival  in  Style,"  Am.  Jour. 
Phil,  rv,  445  f. 

*  The  Poetical  Works  of  Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes,  ed.  Edmund  Gosse, 
1894,  II,  1  f.  The  Poems  of  Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes,  ed.  Ramsay  Colles, 
London,  Routledge,  1906,  p.  If.  See  also  T.F.  Kensall,  "Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes", 
Fortnightly  Review,  new  series,  XII,  51  f.,  an  article  devoted  almost  exclu- 
sively to  an  analysis  of  Death's  Jest- Book. 

^  Les  Fleurs  du  Mai,  6d.  d6f.,  Paris,  Calmann-L6vy,  p.  127. 

®  Beddoes  has  many  of  those  succinctly  sinister  turns  of  thought  which 
one  associates  with  Webster.  For  example,  recent  graves,  but  six  feet  under 
earth,  are  called  "the  very  garrets  of  death's  town"  (II,  iii);  the  earth  is 
called  "this  grave-paved  star"  (II.  iii);  ivy  is  "that  creeping  darkness"  (III, 
iii);  night  is  the  time  when 

"half  mankind 
Lie  quiet  in  earth's  shade  and  rehearse  death"  (HI,  iii). 

2* 


20  Chapter  One. 

current  imitations  of  the  old  dramatists.  "Say  what  you  will," 
he  wrote  \  "I  am  convinced  the  man  who  is  to  awaken  the 
drama  must  be  a  bold  trampling  fellow  —  no  creeper  into 
wormholes  —  no  reviver  even  —  however  good.  These  reani- 
mations  are  vampire-cold.  Such  ghosts  as  Marloe  —  Webster, 
etc.,  are  better  dramatists,  better  poets,  I  dare  say,  than  any 
contemporary  of  ours  —  but  they  are  ghosts  —  the  worm  is  in 
their  pages.  .  .  .  With  the  greatest  reverence  for  all  the 
antiquities  of  the  drama,  I  still  think  that  we  had  better  beget 
than  revive  —  attempt  to  give  the  literature  of  this  age  an 
idiosyncrasy  and  spirit  of  its  own  and  only  raise  a  ghost  to 
gaze  on,  not  to  live  with  —  just  now  the  drama  is  a  haunted 
ruin."  In  the  preface  to  The  Bride's  Tragedy"  he  writes,  "The 
Muses  .  .  .  have  almost  deserted  the  public  haunt,  and  Eng- 
land can  hardly  boast  of  anything  that  deserves  to  be  called 
a  national  stage." 

Beddoes'  fellows  are  of  less  importance  and  may  be  dis- 
missed with  a  few  words.  George  Barley's  beautiful  Sylvia, 
or  the  May  Queen,^  modeled  on  Fletcher's  Faithful  Shepherdess 
and  reminiscent  of  Shakespeai'e's  fairies  and  of  Coinus,  is,  with 
the  possible  exception  of  Hood's  Plea  of  the  Mid-Summer  Fairies, 
the  best  modern  effort  to  fulfil  the  land  once  more  with  "fay- 
erye".  In  Thomas  a  Becket^  and  Ethelstan^  he  experimented 
rather  unsuccessfully  in  the  chronicle  play.  He  is  a  disciple 
of  Shakespeare  and  Fletcher,  as  Beddoes  is  of  Webster.  The 
influence  of  Marlowe  is  apparent  in  the  eastern  pomp,  the 
gorgeous  language,  and  the  titanic  conception  of  Wells'  Joseph 
and  his  Brethren.^ 

I  have  now  traced  to  its  consummation  this  important 
element  in  the  Romantic  drama.  It  is  the  very  antithesis  of 
Byron's  plays,  yet  like  them  it  is  a  movement  of  reform.    And 


^  The  Letters  of  Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes,  ed.  Edmund  Gosse,  London, 
Elkin  Mathews  and  John  Lane,  1894,  p.  50  f. 

^  Poems,  ed.  Colles,  p.  455. 

^  Poetical  Works  of  George  Darley,  ed.  Ramsay  Colles,  London,  Rout- 
ledge,  p.  81  f. 

*  Ibid.  p.  207.  Mr.  Colles  owns  a  copy  of  the  play  given  by  Darley  to 
Tennyson,  but  I  have  observed  no  indebtedness  in  Socket  to  Thomas  a  Becket. 

6  Ibid.  p.  325  f . 

*  Charles  Wells,  Joseph  and  his  Brethren,  London,  Frowde,  1908. 


/ 


The  Drama  of  the  Romantic  Period.  21 

it  was  in  harmon}',  as  B3Ton's  foreign  theories  never  were, 
with  the  instincts  of  the  British  people.  The  modern  poetic 
drama,  if  it  is  to  exist  at  all,  must  fuse  these  tendencies,  must 
have  something  of  the  classic  strength,  restraint,  and  regularity 
of  design,  which  were  the  ideals  of  B3'ron  in  his  dramatic 
experiments,  and  something  of  the  wealth  of  imaginative  poetry, 
which  was  apparently  be3'ond  his  grasp  but  which  alone,  as 
in  the  case  of  Beddoes,  will  not  result  in  great  drama. 

The  closet  drama,  as  stated  above,  was  of  increasing  im- 
portance during  the  Romantic  period.  Several  of  the  plays 
already-  considered  were  either  not  intended  for  the  stage  or 
unsuccessful  thereon.  Others,  now  to  be  mentioned,  come 
under  the  class  rather  of  "dramatic  poems"  than  of  real  dramas. 
Count  Julian^  was  apparently  the  only  one  of  Landor's  dramatic 
pieces  that  came  under  Byron's  notice^  Landor  himself  noted 
that  his  "poems  in  dramatic  form"  were  "no  better  than 
Imaginary  Conversations  in  metre." "  Count  Julian  has  almost 
as  much  obscurity  as  Gehir,  the  result  of  a  desire  to  attain 
an  absolute  austerit}'  of  diction,  a  classical  restraint  pushed  to 
its  furthest  bounds.  The  reader  must  have  previous  know- 
ledge of  the  story;  that  requisite  complied  with,  it  is  possible 
to  admire  the  subtle  delineation  of  character  expressed  in 
compact  and  polished  verse.  But  most  people  knew,  and  know, 
nothing  of 

"The  Father  by  whose  wrong  revenged,  his  land 
Was  given  for  sword  and  fire  to  desolate."* 

The  appeal  of  Count  Julian,  as  of  almost  all  Landor's  poetry, 
is  therefore  very  limited.  It  represents  the  extreme  of  the 
reaction  from  the  stage;  the  closet  drama  has  wandered  so  far 
from  its  source  as  to  cease  to  be  drama  at  all. 

In  the  preface  to  Marino  Faliero  (P.  IV,  388),  Byron  wrote, 
"There   is   dramatic  power   somewhere,   where  Joanna  Baillie, 


1  The  Works  of  Walter  Savage  Landor,  1853,  II,  o03f. 

'^)  Bryon's  only  reference  to  the  play  (omitted  through  an  oversight 
from  Mr.  Coleridge's  Index)  occurs  in  a  note  to  the  last  line  of  the  Dedication 
of  Don  Juan,  P.  VI,  9. 

3   Works,  p.  503. 

*  Swinburne,  Sony  for  the  Centenary  of  Walter  Savage  Landor, 
stanza  13,  Poems,  New  York,  Harper,  1904,  V,  14. 


22  Chapter  One. 

and  Milman,  and  John  Wilson  exist.  The  City  of  the  Plague 
and  The  Fall  of  Jerusalem  are  full  of  the  best  'materiel'  for 
tragedy  that  has  been  seen  since  Horace  Walpole,  except 
passages  of  Ethwaid  and  De  Montforty  I  have  touched  on  all 
these  plays  except  John  Wilson's  City  of  the  Plague^.  This 
pathetic  and  beautiful  poem,  though  full  of  genuine  tragic 
feeling,  is  iiardly  a  real  drama.  There  is  no  development  of  cha- 
racter or  situation,  no  progressive  action,  no  protagonist,  no 
catastrophe.  It  is  a  succession  of  historical  scenes  portra3'ing 
incidents  of  the  great  pest.  Two  naval  officers,  Frankfort  and 
Wilmot,  come  to  London  to  seek  the  former's  mother.  She  is 
found  dead  already.  Magdelene,  Frankfort's  betrothed,  is  dis- 
covered in  the  city,  a  ministering  angel  to  the  dying  and 
bereaved.  The  two  lovers  meet  only  to  die  together  and  to 
receive  quiet  burial  at  the  hands  of  the  faithful  Wilmot  and 
an  aged  priest.  Despair  in  all  its  forms  is  portrayed,  seeking 
distraction  in  the  prophecies  of  an  astrologer,  or  in  impious 
revels,  or  in  the  crowded  streets,  or  in  the  sight  of  the  terrible 
pit;  while  brightly  against  the  dark  London  streets  and  church- 
yards there  shine  far-off  glimpses  of  Magdelene's  home,  the  hills 
and  lakes  of  Westmoreland.  The  piece  lacks  inspiration;  the 
imagination  seems  forced;  it  does  not  strike  to  the  roots  of 
terror  or  of  love.  Yet  as  a  tribute  to  self-sacrifice  it  is  a 
worthy  performance,  far  from  deserving  the  oblivion  that  has 
overtaken  it.  Byron  commended  it  because  of  its  choice  of 
an  historical  subject,  its  lack  of  exaggeration  in  spite  of  a 
theme  which  lent  itself  easily  to  fantastic  treatment,  its  care- 
ful composition,  and  its  unsuitability  for  the  stage. 


^  The  Works  of  Professor  Wilson  .  .  .  edited  by  Professor  Ferrier, 
1858,  XII,  75  f .  The  City  of  the  Plague  is  founded  upon  Defoe's  History 
of  the  Plague,  though  the  chief  characters  have  no  analogues  in  the  source. 
The  incidents  of  the  play  —  the  astrologer,  the  revels,  the  portents  in  the 
skies,  such  as  the  line  of  hearses  seen  along  the  clouds,  the  lunatics  running 
through  the  streets  and  sometimes  jumping  into  the  pit,  the  ghosts  in  the 
churchyards,  the  special  horror  of  the  Aldgate  pit  —  these  and  other  scenes 
are  found  in  Defoe's  crowded  narrative.  But  the  poet  has  not  improved  upon 
his  original;  the  History  remains  the  more  terrible  and  the  more  impressive 
description  of  the  pest,  equaled,  if  at  all,  in  English  (for  I  leave  aside  Thu- 
cydides  and  Boccaccio),  only  by  the  narrative  of  the  Naples  plague  in  John 
Inglesant. 


] 


The  Drama  of  the  Romantic  Period.  23 

It  is  difficult  to  classify  the  plays  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  since 
he  made  experiments  in  nearl}'^  every  genre.  His  dramas  are 
the  least  notable  part  of  his  achievement,  but  are  not  abso- 
lutel}^  negligible.  Byron  must  have  known  of  the  existence  of 
some  of  them,  but  they  made  no  impression  on  him.  Scott's 
first  experiment  in  dramatic  form  was  a  translaaon  o^  Goethe's 
Gotz  von  Berlichingen  (1799),  followed  the  same  year  by  The 
House  of  Aspen,  a  prose  drama  stronglj'  influenced  by  Goethe  [  ^^  \b 
and  following  the  traditional  methods  of  the  terrific  school. 
At  this  time,  be  it  remembered,  Scott  was  associated  with 
M.  G.  Lewis  and  almost  in  the  position  of  a  disciple.  But  in 
December,  1801,  he  wrote\  ^^The  Plays  of  the  Passions  have 
put  me  entirely  out  of  conceit  with  my  Germanized  brat;  and 
should  I  ever  again  attempt  dramatic  composition,  I  would 
endeavour  after  the  genuine  old  English  model."  Nevertheless 
his  next  attempt  was  "after"  no  genuine  model  of  any  kind, 
but  was  a  ifrankly  "illegitimate"  composition'^;  The  Doom  of 
DevorgoiV  is  a  melodrama  with  serio-comic  goblins  and  other 
supernatural  accessories,  and  the  usual  accompaniment  of  songs. 
It  lay  for  long  in  manuscript,  till,  in  1826,  it  occurred  to  Scott 
that  "the  goblin  drama"  might  be  published  to  help  his  cre- 
ditors*. It  is  quite  worthless.  HaUdon  Hill  (1822)  was  written 
for  a  miscellany  edited  by  Joanna  Baillie,  but  when  found 
too  long  for  that  purpose,  was  offered  to  Constable,  who  gave 
Scott  a  thousand  pounds  for  it.  More  than  any  of  the  other 
plays  it  shows  what  Scott  might  have  done  in  this  line,  with 
care  and  time  and  training.'*  It  is  a  clearly  drawn  historical 
sketch,  full  of  stirring  sentiments  and  rapid  movement.     Mac- 


1  J.  G.  Lockhart,  Life  of  Scott,  London,  J.  B.  Millet  Co.,  II,  63. 

^  The  "melo-drama",  a  new  form  of  dramatic  entertainment,  was  intro- 
duced into  England  from  France.  It  was  a  medley  of  dialogue  and  music, 
with  themes  varying  from  farce  to  tragedy  with  more  than  Elizabethan  license. 
Tales  of  adventure  (many  taken  from  Scott),  of  terror,  and  of  mystery  were 
drawn  upon  for  materials.  The  (jenre  is  of  negative  importance  in  this  study 
in  that  more  than  anything  else  it  disgusted  Byron  with  the  English  stage 
(Cf.  LJ.  II,  350). 

*  The  Complete  Poetical  Works  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  ed.  J.  L.  Robert- 
son, London,  Frowde,  1894,  vol.  V.     (Contains  the  four  poetical  dramas.) 

*  Lockhart,  VIII,  193. 

">  Cf.  Thorndike,  p.  350. 


24  Chapter  One. 

duff''s  Cross  is  the  dramatization  of  but  a  single  incident,  to 
supply  the  promised  contribution  to  Miss  BaiLlie's  collection. 
Finally,  Auchindrmie,  a  composition  which  Lockhart  (IX,  297) 
considered  "far  superior  to  any  of  his  previous  attempts  of  that 
nature",  was  written  in  1830.  It  is  a  tale  of  domestic  tra- 
gedy and^  persecution  and  belongs  in  the  same  general  class 
with  Werner. 

The  works  of  two  men  must  now  receive  a  passing  glance, 
not  for  their  own  merits  but  because  of  their  connection  with 
Byron.  The  Rev.  George  Groly  (the  "very  Reverend  Rowley 
Powley"  of  Don  Juan  XI,  57)  was  one  of  Byron's  earliest  and 
most  successful  imitators,  and  in  turn  seems  to  have  in  a 
slight  degree  influenced  Byron \  A  reference  to  "Gambyses' 
roaring  Romans"  in  Don  Juan  (XI,  58)  is  an  indication  that 
Byron  had  read  Groly's  one  play,  Catili?ie^,  a  version  of  his 
conspiracy  and  death  infinitely  inferior  to  Ben  Jonson's,  to 
which,  however,  it  owes  little,  though  the  debt  to  Shakespeare 
is  great *'.  It  follows  Byron  in  its  exaltation  of  liberty  .and 
curious  mixture  of  aristocratic  and  democratic  sentiments,  but 
it  is  of  little  consequence.  And  of  even  less  note  is  the  work  of 
William  Sotheby.  In  1814  he  published  Five  Tragedies,  of 
which  Byron  thought  Orestes  the  best*.  He  wrote  cordiall}^  to 
Sotheby  several  times,  and  through  his  influence  Ivan  was  ac- 
cepted at  Drury  Lane.  Genest  (X,  233)  says,  "Some  parts  of 
this  T[ragedy]  are  well  written,  but  on  the  whole  it  is  an  in- 
different play  —  it  was  rehearsed  3  or  4  times  at  Drury  Lane, 
but  laid  aside,  as  Kean  said  he  could  make  nothing  of  the 
character  of  Ivan  —  Kean  was  right".  Byron  expressed  regret 
at  this  impasse   and,   when  Maturin's  Manuel  failed,   he   wrote 


1  S.  C.  Chew,  Jr.  "Byron  and  Croly",  Modcni  Lany.  Notes  XXVIII,  201  f. 

*  Poetical  Works  of  Rev.  George  Croly.  London,  n.  d.,  II,  If. 

*  Especially  to  Julius  Caesar.  Catiline  is  incited  to  the  conspiracy  by 
means  of  a  letter  sent  anonymously ;  like  Brutus  he  walks  in  his  garden ;  his 
wife  is  a  crude  copy  of  Portia;  prodigies  are  seen  in  the  sky  before  the  re- 
bellion breaks  out;  two  of  the  rebel  leaders  quarrel  before  a  battle  in  which 
they  are  defeated;  the  mob  is  like  those  in  Shakespeare's  Roman  plays. 

*  "Sotheby,  with  his  damned  Orestes, 

(Which,  by  the  way,  the  old  Bore's  best  is)"  (LJ.  IV,  159). 
This  couplet  is  given  differently  in  the  Jeu  d'Esprit  (P.  VII,  48),  and  in  a 
third  version  by  Mr.  Prothero  (LJ.  Ill,  62,  note  1). 


The  Drama  of  the  Romantic  Period.  25 

(LJ.  IV,  95),  "The  failure  of  poor  M's  play  will  be  a  cordial 
to  the  aged  heart  of  Saul*  who  has  been  'kicking  against  the 
pricks'  of  the  managers  so  long  and  so  vainly  —  they  ought 
to  act  his  Ivany  He  told  Rogers  (LJ.  IV,  97)  that  Sotheby 
"was  capriciously  and  evilly  entreated  by  the  Sub-Committee 
about  poor  dear  Ivan,  whose  lot  can  only  be  paralleled  by  that 
of  his  original  —  I  don't  mean  the  author,  who  is  anything  but 
original." 

Finally,  two  dramatists  who  won  notable  success  upon  the 
stage  must  be  mentioned.  Throughout  the  period  those  plays 
which  were  most  successful  on  the  stage  are  historically  of 
least  importance.  They  were  purely  ephemeral.  Only  one 
thoroughly  successful  playwright  even  approaches  the  domain 
of  letters.  This  is  J.  S.  Sheridan  Knowles.  His  most  important 
play  was  Virginius'^,  which  owes  much  to  Webster's  Appius 
and  Virginia,  though  it  suffers  in  comparison  with  it'.  His 
plays  are  chiefh'  on  classical  or  historical  subjects.  It  is  of 
interest  to  note  why  a  man  of  mediocre  taste  and  little  poetic 
abiht}-  prospered  on  the  stage  where  men  gi'eatly  his  superiors 
had  failed.  This  was  due,  in  the  first  place,  to  his  practical 
acquaintance  with  the  theatre.  He  had  been  an  actor  and 
knew  at  first  hand  the  requhements  of  the  stage.  Moreover 
Knowles  centred  his  interest  in  common  emotions.  In  the  third 
and  fourth  decades  of  the  century  the  fervor  of  Romanticism 
was  on  the  wane  and  the  desire  for  the  portrayal  of  extra- 
ordinary passions  was  not  so  strong  as  the  appeal  to  what 
Home*  called  the  "domestic  feeHng",  which  was  part  of  the 
spirit  of  the  age  and  which  increased  in  strength  during  the  mid- 
Victorian  period.  Here  the  simplicity  and  lack  of  subtlety  in 
the  work  of  Knowles  acted  in  his  favor.  He  was  a  mean 
between  the  superficiaUties  and  rant  of  stage  hacks  on  the 
one  hand,  and  the  nice  psychology  and  metaphysics  of  the 
closet  dramatists  on  the  other. 


*  Sotheby,  the  allusion  being  to  his  poem  Saul. 
^  Dramatic  Works,  London,  1856,  I,  59  f. 

'  See  H.  B.  Baker,   The  London  Stage:  Its  History  and  Traditions, 
London,  W.  H.  Allen  and  Co.,  1889,  I,  226  f. 

*  R.  H.   Home,    A  New  Spirit  of  the  Age,   London,  Frowde,   1907, 
p.  304. 


26  Chapter  One. 

R.  L.  Sheil  is  the  same  type  of  writer.  His  Evadne  *  shows 
a  like  dependence  upon  a  Jacobean  model  (Shirley's  The  Traitor) 
and  a  like  familiarity  with  the  stage.  Both  Knowles  and  Sheil 
point  forward  to  the  later  successes  of  Bulwer-L5i;ton. 

From  the  consideration  of  all  the  foregoing  dramas  and 
dramatists  some  general  conclusions  shall  now  be  attempted; 
and  such  as  are  arrived  at  shall  be  applied  specifically  to  the 
dramas  of  Byron. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  last  century  a  new  audience  had 
been  attracted  to  the  theatres.  Till  then  the  low  classes  had 
generally  preferred  more  "manly"  amusements  —  prize-fighting, 
cock-fighting,  and  the  like;  and  the  theatres  had  appealed  to 
a  more  educated  public.  But  as  the  lower  orders  became  less 
blind  and  brutal  the  managers  found  it  profitable  to  cater  to 
their  tastes,  and  the  standard  of  theatrical  productions  ine\4- 
tably  deteriorated.  But  the  typical  stage  plaj^s  carried  the  seed 
of  their  own  destruction.  The  craze  of  one  decade  became 
the  laughing-stock  of  the  next;  "Monk"  Lewis  parodied  his 
own  style,  and  Gen  est  (IX,  318)  records  a  farce  called  The 
Sorrows  of  Werter,  or  Love,  Liquor  and  Lunacy. 

The  stage  of  Byron's  time  did  not  reflect  the  varying 
emotions  of  the  period.  At  a  time  of  general  social  unrest, 
when  the  Tories  were  sowing  the  wind  to  reap  the  whirlwind 
of  1832,  with  agitation  caused  by  the  Union,  by  legislation 
against  Roman  Catholics,  by  the  economic  revolution  and  labor 
unrest,  b}^  a  restricted  and  unfair  suffrage,  by  the  spectacle 
of  Napoleon  dominating  Europe  and  threatening  to  engulf  Eng- 
land —  at  such  a  time  the  theatre  offered  German  sentimen- 
tality, French  flippancy,  and  native  sensationalism.  One  looks 
in  vain  for  that  sense  of  national  pride  and  power  which  is 
the  glory  of  the  Elizabethan  drama.  The  sense  was  not  wanting 
in  England,  but  it  found  expression  in  the  Waverlij  Novels  and 
in  the  Sonnets  dedicated  to  National  Independence  and  Liberty. 
In  it  the  theatre  had  no  share. 

The  experiments  in  dramatic  composition  made  by  the 
poets  of  the  age,  while  but  a  small  appendage  to  the  great 


^  Oxberry,  New  English  Drama  XTV.     Cf.  Quart.  Rev.  XXII,  407  f. 


The  Drama  of  the  Romantic  Period.  27 

body  of  romantic  poetry,  are  more  nearly  in  touch  with  the 
time-spirit  and  more  nearly  worthy  of  the  traditions  of  the  past. 
A  number  of  characteristics  both  as  to  substance  and  technique 
stand  out  clearly. 

"There  is",  wrote  Home  (p.  313),  "manifestly  the  strongest 
tendency  in  the  present  age  to  be  dramatic.  ...  To  go  back 
no  further  than  Byron,  Southey,  Shelley,  Coleridge,  the  list 
includes  almost  every  author  eminent  in  works  of  imagination 
and  invention."  This  is  the  first  point  to  be  noticed  about  the 
drama  of  the  Romantic  period.  Every  one  of  the  great  poets 
of  the  time  made  one  or  more  essays  in  dramatic  composition. 

In  this  whole  group  of  plays  there  is  found,  broadly  speak- 
ing, some  aspect  or  other  of  revolutionary  thought.  The 
demand  for  liberty  was  sweeping  over  Europe;  the  same  move- 
ment that  culminated  in  England  in  the  Reform  BiU  was  at 
the  bottom  of  the  long  struggle  for  a  constitutional  Spain,  a 
free  Greece,  and  a  fi'ee  and  united  Italy.  This  aspiration  is 
reflected  in  Southey's  Wat  Tyler,  in  Groly's  Catiline,  and  in 
other  plays ;  and  especially  in  those  of  Lord  Byron.  Since  for 
the  most  part  the  plays  considered  in  this  chapter  assert  the 
independence  of  the  individual,  it  is  significant  of  Byron's 
broadness  of  vision  that  in  Marino  Faliero  he  undertook  to 
present  in  dramatic  form  the  yearnings  of  an  entire  people  for 
liberty.  The  contrast  is  seen,  with  the  crudeness  of  a  philo- 
sophical formula,  in  Godwin's  dramas;  it  permeates  the  early 
attempts  of  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  and  Southey;  it  receives 
supreme  artistic  expression  in  The  Cenci  of  Shelley.  Pushed 
to  an  extreme  it  resulted  in  the  crude  license  of  The  Myste- 
rious Mother,  and,  when  subjected  to  artistic  control,  in  that 
philosophic  defiance  and  trust  in  the  self-sufficiency  of  the 
human  intellect  which  is  the  central  theme  of  Manfred  and 
of  Cain.  Revolutionary  thought,  which,  deriving  from  the  French 
materialists,  is  the  foundation  of  the  most  typical  poetry  of 
the  age  —  The  Prelude,  Childe  Harold,  Prometheus  Unbound  — 
is  the  primary  inspiration  of  the  poetic  drama. 

This  leads  to  a  third  point.  Interest  in  the  struggle  of 
the  peoples  for  fi^eedom  and  social  betterment  makes  for  a 
choice  of  historical  subjects.  This  is  especially  apparent  in 
Byron ;  but  it  caused  Scott  to  dramatize  subjects  from  Scottish 


28  Chapter  One. 

history,  and  in  varying  degree  it  influenced  Landor,  Southey, 
Shelle}^,  Keats,  Milman,  Wilson,  Grol}',  and  others.  This  choice 
of  themes  was  of  course  furthered  by  the  traditions  of  the 
EngHsh  chronicle  play.  Italian  subjects  were  very  popular, 
partly  because  of  the  example  of  many  Ehzabethan  plays, 
partly  because  Italy  was  the  abode  of  the  chief  of  living  poets, 
but  mainly  because  of  the  inherent  fascination  of  the  country, 
which  influenced  Byron,  SheUey,  Milman,  Groly,  Procter,  and 
others,  and  to  which  at  a  later  date  Landor,  Browning,  Swin- 
burne and  many  more  have  paid  their  tribute  of  praise. 

The  poetic  treatment  of  historic  themes  is  in  accord  with 
the  revival  of  interest  in  the  Middle  Ages,  which  is  so  striking 
a  "note"  of  the  time.  Romanticism  is  all-powerful.  The 
domestic  themes  that  had  been  employed  in  a  number  of  plays 
during  the  preceding  century  were  quite  ignored.  None  of 
the  poets  turned  to  ordinary,  daily  modern  life  for  the  subjects 
of  their  plays.  Thus  it  happens  that  the  poetic  drama,  though 
more  serious  than  the  stage-plays,  was  almost  equally  removed 
from  life;  it  reflected,  inadequately  but  not  distortedly,  the 
thought  and  aspirations  of  the  age,  but  it  did  not  afford  a 
criticism  of  the  life  of  the  people.  It  was  as  far  removed  as 
possible  from  realism. 

This  is  due,  apart  from  the  general  tendency  of  the  time, 
to  the  fact  that  the  authors  of  these  plays  were  poets  in  the 
first  place,  and  only  secondarily  dramatists.  The  tremendous 
outburst  of  lyric  poetry,  intense  in  its  individualism,  stunted 
the  growth  of  the  drama.  Hardly  a  poet  of  the  time  had  any 
of  the  objectivity  and  aloofness  of  the  supreme  dramatists. 
This  personal  and  lyric  element,  very  noticeable  in  Byron's 
plays  and  of  frequent  occurrence  elsewhere,  accounts  for  the 
chief  difference  between  the  attitude  of  the  romantic  dramatists 
and  that  of  their  Elizabethan  brethren.  There  is  a  substitution 
of  spiritual  for  external  action,  an  increasing  interest  in  the 
psychology  of  situation,  a  growing  inattention  to  mere  plot, 
a  new  and  (judging  by  old  standards)  disproportionate  insistence 
upon  motive.  This  is  illustrated  by  Miss  Bailhe,  Coleridge,  and 
others;  and  especially  by  Byron.  It  reaches  its  chmax  in 
Browning's  dramas.  In  Luria,  for  example,  there  is  a  minute 
examination  and  revelation  of  every  thought  and  impulse  from 


The  Drama  of  the  Romantic  Period.  29 

the  moment  of  its  birth,  and  this  in  the  character,  not  only 
of  the  protagonist  but  of  each  lesser  person,  as  his  or  her 
deeds  affect  the  significance  of  the  spiritual  motive  which  is 
behind  the  mere  act. 

The  individualism,  romanticism,  and  lyrism  of  these  plays 
are  all  subordinate  to  a  fourth  characteristic.  The  escape  from 
the  world  of  reality,  resulting  in  the  selection  of  themes  often 
far  removed  from  common  sympathy  and  interest,  is  a  defect 
inherent  in  the  great  inspiration  of  the  period  —  its  idealism, 
whether  expressed  in  Wordsworthian  nature-worship,  or  Shelley- 
ian  visions  of  a  golden  age,  or  in  Byron's  practical  encourage- 
ment and  aid  extended  to  actual  revolutionaries.  Directly  from 
this  ideahsm  comes  one  of  the  great  defects  of  the  romantic 
drama  —  its  absolute  lack  of  humour.  In  this  respect  Shelley 
is  typical.  "Humour",  it  has  been  well  said,  "is  the  joyful 
acceptance  of  human  imperfections".  Such  acceptance  is  never 
characteristic  of  the  reformer  and  revolutionary  zealot.  Humour 
is  always  the  possession  of  the  conservative  element,  w'hich 
seeks  in  it  a  weapon  against  the  encroachment  of  new  ideas. 
The  humour  of  Beppo  and  Don  Juan  and  Byron's  matchless 
letters  is  entirely  lacking  in  his  plays*;  there  is  not  a  trace  of 
it  in  the  dramas  of  Coleridge  and  Shelley;  even  Lamb  left  it 
behind  him,  save  in  feeble  imitation  of  Shakespeare,  when  he 
wrote  his  dramas. 

Some  of  these  writers  made  experiments  along  different 
lines  of  dramatic  theory.  Miss  Baillie's  design  to  illustrate  the 
various  passions  in  a  series  of  plays  was,  she  thought,  quite 
original.  Byron  attempted  to  found  a  "national  drama"  on  the 
French  and  Italian  model  and  broke  away  from  English  tradi- 
tion. SheUey's  desire  was  to  adapt  the  Elizabethan  model  to 
the  requirements  of  his  own  day.  Scott  and  others  planned 
a  compromise  between  poetry  and  the  stage.  Of  all  these 
theories  Shelley's  was  the  only  one  that  resulted  in  a  di^ama 
of  first  rank;  had  he  lived,  it  is  not  easy  to  set  a  limit  to 
what  he  might  have  accompHshed  in  restoring  the  English 
drama  to  the  dignity  of  its  heritage.    This  preoccupation  with 


*  There  is  but  one  character  in  the  whole  group  intended  to  be  humourous 
(Idenstein  in   Werner)  and  that  is  a  complete  failure. 


30  Chapter  Two. 

dramaturgic  theory  was  accompanied  b}-  an  almost  utter  lack  of 
experience  in  stage-craft  and  of  knowledge  of  teclmique.  The 
writers  of  the  Romantic  drama  were  amateurs.  Hence  their 
enthusiasm  for  new  theories.  Hence  their  openness  to  influ- 
ences. Hence  the  frequently  faulty  construction  of  their  plays. 
Byron  is  a  'case  in  point.  The  partial  failure  of  his  dramatic 
exercises  is  due  largel}^  to  lack  of  purely  technical  training. 
He  and  his  fellow  writers  were  further  hampered  by  that  de- 
votion to  introspection  and  philosophy  which  I  have  noted  as 
one  of  the  characteristics  of  these  dramas.  This  played  havoc 
with  the  construction  of  man}^  of  their  pieces.  The  action  is 
halted  through  long  dialogues  and  soliloquies  while  the  niceties 
of  motive  are  discussed.  Almost  always  the  interest  of  the 
poet  is  obviously  in  the  sentiments  more  than  in  the  plot. 

Byron's  dramas  can  be  understood  properly  only  if  they 
are  placed  in  their  true  light  with  regard  to  the  other  plays 
of  the  period.  They  are  closet  di-amas,  never  intended  for  the 
stage;  they  are  written  in  accordance  with  a  special  theory 
of  dramatic  art;  they  express  a  revolt  from  contemporary 
.  fashions ;  they  are  concerned  with  the  effect  of  situation  on 
j'l  character  rather  than  with  the  course. of  external  incident; 
they  are  the  work  of  a  man  whio  was  poet  first  arid  dramatist 
afterwards;  they  show  a  lack  of  technical  equipment;  in  them 
are  found  traces  of  various  and  divergent  influences.  Far  fi'om 
standing  alone  they  are  thus  part  of  the  general  history  of 
the  English  drama. 


Chapter  Two. 

Byron  and  the  Contemporary  Drama. 

The  contemporary  English  stage  exerted  a  great  negative 
influence  over  Byron.  I  have  described  the  chief  current 
fashions  of  the  drama,  which  I  have  attempted  to  illustrate  b}' 
various  plays,  choosing  for  that  purpose,  wherever  possible, 
those  with  which  Byron  was  himself  familiar.  Disgust  with 
the  extreme  license  of  romanticism  was  a  leading  cause,  indeed, 
as  I  think,  the  greatest  cause,  of  Byron's  abandonment  of  that 
romanticism  and  reliance  upon  narrow  laws  in  his  attempt  at 


Byron  and  the  Contemporary  Drama.  31 

the  formation  of  a  truly  national  drama,  of  a  drama  of  which 
England  should  not  be  ashamed. 

During  his  school  and  college  days  Byron  attended  the 
theatre  with  considerable  frequency.  Of  such  a  visit  there  is 
a  record  in  stanzas  v  and  vi  of  the  poem  On  a  Distant  View 
of  Harroiv  (P.  I,  26).  He  saw  W.  H.  W.  Betty,  "ihe  young 
Roscius,"  of  whose  mediocre  abilities  he  made  a  correct  esti- 
mate (LJ.  I,  63),  and  in  English  Bards  he  exclaims  "Thank 
Heaven!  the  Rosciomania's  o'er"  (1.  564) \  Frequent  allusions 
show  his  famiharity  with  the  popular  farces  of  the  day. 
Twice,  in  1806  and  1808,  he  took  part  in  private  theatricals  at 
Southwell,  for  the  earlier  of  which  performances  he  wrote  an 
Occasional  Prologue  (P.  I,  45),  following  the  conventional  type 
—  the  request  for  applause  or  at  least  indulgence.  Years  later 
he  wTote  (LJ.  V,  445),  "When  I  was  a  youth  I  was  reckoned 
a  good  actor",  and  Medwin  says  (p.  134),  "perhaps  Lord  Byron 
would  have  made  the  finest  actor  in  the  world."  An  eye- 
witness of  the  earher  of  these  private  perfomiances  recorded 
the  impression  that  Byron  acted  "inimitablj^"^  When  only 
thirteen  he  attempted  to  write  a  drama  called  Ulric  and  Ilvina, 
apparently  on  the  the  same  theme  as  the  later  Werner,  which 
he  had  "sense  enough  to  burn"  (P.  V,  338). 

Byron  attacked  the  drama  in  his  first  satire  (11.  560  f.), 
where  he  deplores  "the  degradation  of  our  vaunted  stage." 
The  specific  nature  of  the  criticism  shows  that  the  lines  are 
founded  upon  observation.  The  chief  genres  then  in  fashion 
are  referred  to  contemptuously  —  "the  mummery  of  German 
schools;"  translations  fi'om  Kotzebue,  especially  Sheridan's 
Pizarro;  farces  displaying  "buffoonery's  mask";  imitations  of 
Elizabethan  tragedy;  melodramas;  and  Lewis's  "spectres". 
Byron  laments  the  scanty  appreciation  of  Shakespeare,  Otway, 
and  Massinger,  and  the  loss  of  George  Golman  and  Cumberland. 
He  exhorts  Sheridan  to   do   something  worthy  of  his  powers: 

"Give,  as  thy  last  memorial  to  the  age, 

One  classic  drama,  and  reform  the  stage"  (11.  584 — 5). 

While  in  the  East  Byron  wrote  Hints  from  Horace,  a  kind  of 


^  On  Betty  and  the  "mania"  see  Doran,  III,  chap.  ix. 
"  Quoted  by  Mr.  Prothero,  LJ.  I,  108,  note. 


32  Chapter  Two. 

supplement  to  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Revieicers.  There  are 
in  it  several  remarks  in  disparagement  of  the  drama.  In  theatres 
we  can  "dispense  with  common  sense"  and  Wit  is  the  one 
thing  not  employed  to  raise  a  laugh  (11.  157 — 60).  "Lewis's  self, 
with  all  his  sprites"  is  derided,  as  is  the  taste  for  carnage 
and  ghosts,  "French  flippancy  and  German  sentiment"  (1.  454). 
In  this  poem  Byron  introduces  his  earliest  references  to 
dramatic  principles.  Violent  action  should  not  take  place  upon 
the  stage; 

"Many  deeds  preserved  in  Historj^'s  page 
Are  better  told  than  acted  on  the  stage; 
The  ear  sustains  what  shocks  the  timid  eye, 
And  Horror  thus  subsides  to  sympathy; 
True  Briton  all  beside,  I  here  am  French"  (11.  267  f.). 

Moreover  there  must  be  no  action  exceeding  behef,  for  an 
event  may  be  an  historical  fact,  yet  dramatically  impossible. 
Pomposity  and  show  at  the  exjDense  of  vitality  and  realism  are 
to  be  avoided.  The  theatre  should  instruct  as  well  as  amuse. 
This  is  significant,  for  here  are  opinions  developed  early  in  life 
that  afterwards  appear  in  the  three  historical  plays.  It  was 
evidently  through  no  sudden  caprice  that  Byron  elected  to 
follow  the  classical  model.  The  precepts  are  but  echoes  of 
Horace  (as  the  title  acknowledges)  and  Boileau,  but  it  is  to  be 
remarked  that  already  Byron  took  "hints"  from  them.  There 
is  the  germ  of  the  dramatic  theory  later  exemplified  by  the  two 
Venetian  plays  and  Sardanapalus.  The  aim  is  in  the  direction 
of  truth  to  nature,  decorum,  and  a  higher  moral  purpose. 

On  his  return  from  the  East  Byron  took  up  his  residence 
in  London.  He  was  now  a  constant  attendant  at  the  theatre/ 
The  few  criticisms  of  the  stage  contained  in  his  letters  of  this 
period  are  uniformly  disparaging.    "Good  plays  are  scarce",  he 

^)  Among  the  plays  which  he  saw  before  the  end  of  1813  were:  Coriu- 
lamis.  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  Anton  ij  and  Cleopatra.  Richard  III, 
and  Rowe's  Fair  Penitent;  various  farces  and  comedies  such  as  Colman's 
Bluebeard;  and  at  least  one  example  of  the  style  of  melodrama  founded  on 
Scott's  novels  and  poems,  —  Morton's  Kniyht  of  Snowdoun.  a  musical  drama 
taken  from  The  Lady  of  the  Lake.  There  are  many  references  to  other 
dramatists  and  quotations  from  their  works.  A  partial  list  of  such  includes 
Congreve,  Vanbrugh,  Farquhar,  Gay,  Goldsmith,  Foote,  Rich;  and  of  foreign 
dramatists,  Schiller  (The  liohhers),  Alfieri,  and  Monti. 


Byron  and  the  Contemporary  Drama.  33 

writes  in  September,  1811  (LJ.  11,  34),  and  speaks  of  "our  stage 
in  its  present  state"  where  the  context  shows  that  the  reference 
is  to  the  English  lack  of  regularity.  His  next  actual  work  in 
the  drama  was  "a  comedy  of  Goldoni's  translated,  one  scene," 
which  he  sent  to  Dallas  in  September,  1811  (LJ.  II,  43).  This 
has  disappeared.  On  October  12,  1812  Byron's  Address  was 
spoken  at  the  opening  of  the  new  Drury  Lane  Theatre.  There 
is  in  it  no  profound  dramatic  criticism,  but  there  is  the  same 
disapproval  of  contemporary  fashions  upon  the  stage.  Byron 
promises  better  things  in  the  future:  — 

"If  e'er  Frivolity  had  led  to  fame. 

And  made  us  blush  that  you  forebore  to  blame  — 

If  e'er  the  sinking  stage  ^  could  condescend 

To  soothe  the  sickly  taste  it  dare  not  mend  — 

AU  past  reproach  maj'  present  scenes  refute. 

And  censure,  wisely  loud,  be  justty  mute"  (11.  56  f.). 

The  Address  is  not  good  verse,  but  it  is  a  sincere  attempt  to 
point  the  way  to  a  higher  dramatic  standard,  to  "Nature  for 
our  guide,"  to  make  "the  Drama  be  where  she  hath  been" 
(11.  72  and  24).  This  composition  brought  Byron  into  close 
touch  with  Drury  Lane  and  was  a  factor  in  the  choice  of  him 
as  a  member  of  the  Committee  of  Management  two  years 
afterwards. 

In  1813 — 14  Byron  had  "a  box  at  Covent  Garden  for  the 
season"  (LJ.  11,  334).  This  was  the  time  of  the  Byron  furore; 
he  was  writing  the  Eastern  Tales.  It  is  not  surprising,  there- 
fore, that  some  newspapers  declared  him  to  be  the  author  of 
an  anonymous  spectacular  Oriental  melodrama,  produced  at 
Drury  Lane  in  November,  1813,  for  the  costumes  of  which  he 
had  furnished  some  drawings  (LJ.  II,  288).  His  comment  upon 
this  ascription  was,  "I  wonder  what  they  wiU  next  infhct  upon 
me.  They  cannot  well  sink  below  melodrama"  (LJ.  II,  350)^ 
At  this  time  he  was  actually  at  work  upon  a  play.  In  liis 
journal  for  November  14  we  find,  "This  afternoon  I  have  burnt 
the  scenes  of  my  commenced  comedy"  (LJ.  II,  314),  and  three 
days  later:  "I  began  a  comedy,  but  burnt  it  because  the  scene 


^  This  phrase  had  already  been  employed  in  Eng.  Bards,  1.  734. 
"  Compare  The  Devil's  Drive,  stanza  26;  P.  VII,  33—34. 
Hesperia,  B.  3.  3 


34  Chapter  Two. 

ran  into  reality,  —  a  novel  for  the  same  reason.  In  rh3^me  I 
can  keep  more  away  from  facts"  (LJ.  II,  323).  This  last 
sentence  indicates  that,  following  the  mode,  the  comedy  was 
to  be  in  prose,  for  — 

"Modest  Comedy  her  verse  foregoes 
For  jest  and  pun  in  very  middling  prose."  * 

Another  reason  for  its  destruction  may  be  found  in  the  remark, 
"A  comedy  I  take  to  be  the  most  difficult  of  compositions, 
more  so  than  tragedy"  (LJ.  II,  373).  It  is  notable  that  at  this 
date  Byron  chose  for  dramatic  treatment  the  EikoSj  not  the 
Pathos,  of  life.  Later  he  put  his  pictures  of  manners  into 
Don  Juan  and  selected  the  tragic  side  of  existence  for  dramatic 
presentation.  In  1814  he  was  urged  by  several  friends  to  try 
his  hand  at  a  tragedy.  On  January  22  he  wrote  to  Murraj'^, 
"Before  I  left  town  Kemble  paid  me  the  compliment  of  desiring 
me  to  write  a  tragedy  \  I  wish  I  could,  but  I  find  my  scribbling 
mood  subsiding"  (LJ.  Ill,  16).  On  February  20  he  noted  in 
his  journal,  "I  wish  that  I  had  a  talent  for  the  drama;  I  would 
write  a  tragedy  womj"  (LJ.  II,  387).  In  an  undated  letter  of 
the  same  year  he  remarked  to  Moore,  "As  it  is  fitting  there 
should  be  good  plays,  now  and  then,  besides  Shakespeare's, 
I  wish  you  or  Campbell  would  write  one:  —  the  rest  of  'us  youth' 
have  not  heart  enough"  (LJ.  Ill,  81).  On  July  23  Jeffrey  wrote 
of  Byron  to  Moore,  "I  want  him  above  all  things  to  write  a 
tragedy'"^,  upon  which  Byron's  comment  was,  "Jeffi'ey  does  me 
more  than  justice;  but  as  to  tragedy  —  um!  —  I  have  no  time 
for  fiction  at  present"  (LJ.  Ill,  126). 

Towards  the  end  of  181 4  Whitbread,  the  popular  manager 
of  Drury  Lane,  committed  suicide.  The  noblemen  and  gentlemen 
who  were  financial!)^  interested  in  the  theatre  undertook  "the 
absurd  and  perilous  step"  of  appointing  a  sub -committee  to 
manage  the  house.  For  three  years  these  men,  one  of  whom  during 
1815  was  Lord  Byron,  "made  experiments  and  amused  them- 
selves at  the  same  time."*  Byron  was  active  and  enthusiastic 
in  his  share    of  the   work,    and    considered   the    management 


^  Hints  from  Horace,  11.  121—2. 
2  Quoted  by  Mr.  Prothero,  LJ.  Ill,  126,  note. 

*  Percy  Fitzgerald,   History  of  the  English  Stage,   London,   Tinsley 
Brothers,  1882,  II,  384  f. 


Byron  and  the  Contemporary  Drama.  35 

"really  very  good  fun,  as  far  as  the  daily  and  nightly  stir  of 
these  strutters  and  fretters  go"  (LJ.  Ill,  230).  He  was  probably 
influenced  in  his  decision  to  write  a  play  by  perusal  of  the 
tolerable  and  intolerable  attempts  that  were  submitted  to  the 
Committee.  Long  afterwards  he  told  Medwin  (p.  89),  "When 
I  first  entered  upon  theatrical  affairs  I  had  some  idea  of  writing 
for  the  house  myself,  but  soon  became  a  convert  to  Pope's 
opinion  on  that  subject.  Who  would  condescend  to  the  drudg- 
ery of  the  stage,  and  enslave  himself  to  the  humours,  the 
caprices,  the  taste  or  the  tastelessness  of  the  age?"  Byron 
probably  refers  to  a  remark  of  Pope's  in  Spence's  Anecdotes, 
which  he  himself  quoted  in  a  letter  to  Murray  (LJ.  V,  223) : 
"I  had  taken  such  strong  resolutions  against  anything  of  that 
kind,  from  seeing  how  much  everybody  that  did  write  for  the 
stage,  was  obliged  to  subject  themselves  to  the  players  and 
the  town."  He  may  also  have  remembered  hnes  304—337  of 
the  Epistle  to  Augustus.  His  "idea  of  writing  for  the  house" 
went  so  far  as  the  first  di'aft  of  the  first  act  of  Werner,  which 
was  certainly  at  that  time  designed  for  the  stage.  Hoping  to 
take  advantage  of  the  "opening  for  tragedy"  (LJ.  HI,  191), 
Byron  chose  a  theme  suitable  to  the  public  taste.  The  "Gothic" 
setting  in  "a  ruinous  chateau  on  the  Silesian  frontier"  and 
the  period  of  the  pla}-,  at  the  close  of  the  Hundi-ed  Years' 
War,  when  Europe  was  infested  with  robber-bands  of  discharged 
soldiery,  both  link  the  play  to  the  popular  romantic  drama. 
Ruin,  storm,  darkness,  mystery,  and  misfortune  are  all  huddled 
together  in  the  first  act.  Werner  avoids  the  extravagance  of 
emotional  horror,  but  it  is  in  essentials  of  the  school  of  terror. 
There  are  similarities  in  its  elements  with  Bertram,  which  had 
recently  passed  through  Byi^on's  hands.  The  composition  of 
Werner  was  interrupted  by  Byron's  domestic  difficulties.  "I 
began  that  tragedy  in  1815,"  he  wrote  later  (LJ.  V,  391),  "but 
Lady  Byron's  farce  put  it  out  of  my  head  for  the  time  of  her 
representation."  When  he  left  England  the  fragment  was  left 
behind  and  was  not  found  until  after  his  death.  It  is  not 
strange  that  B}T7on  should  have  commenced  a  play  of  this 
type  in  1815;  it  is  strange  that  after  the  composition  of  his 
classical  dramas  he  should  have  turned  again  to  the  subject 
and   treated  it,   though  perhaps   with  more   technical  skill,    in 

3* 


36  Chapter  Two. 

all  essentials  as  he  would  have  finished  it  in  1815.  The  signi- 
ficance of  Werner  is  that  it  is  Byron's  one  essay  in  the  popular 
mode,  his  one  effort  to  meet  the  stage  half  way. 

"Self-exiled  Harold  wanders  forth  again."  In  Switzerland 
the  pressure,  of  sorrow  and  remorse,  the  overwhelming  presence 
of  the  mountains  and  the  sky,  the  crowding  associations  of 
romantic  scenery,  and  the  companionship  of  Shelley  combined 
to  open  the  flood-gates  of  lyrical,  egotistical  commentary  upon 
man  and  nature,  in  ^Yhich  there  ;wpB  nothing  of  the  calm  ab- 
stracted objectivity  requisite  for  the  drama.  To  this  summer 
belongs  Manfred.  It  is  distantly  related  to  the  school  of  terror, 
but  primarily  it  is  an  attempt  to  give  objective  expression  to 
intensely  subjective  emotion. 

Byron's  thorough  opposition  to  the  stage  dates  from  the 
time  of  his  departure  from  England  and  is  part  of  his  increasing 
dislike  of  all  things  English.  His  instinct  for  classical  "regu- 
larity," of  which  more  shall  be  said,  was  fostered  by  obser- 
vation of  the  extravagance  of  the  stage.  From  the  horrible 
he  reacted  to  the  heroic,  from  medieval  and  exotic  settings  to 
historical,  from  utter  lack  of  truth  to  nature  to  insistence  upon 
fact,  fi'om  unrestrained  wildness  to  an  almost  austere  control, 
from  outworn  and  often  unhealthy  harpings  upon  love  to  study 
of  the  problems  of  states.  He  frequently  contrasts  his  con- 
ception of  tragedy  with  that  current  upon  the  stage.  Thus  of 
Marino  Faliero  he  writes  (LJ.  V,  167),  "It  is  too  regular  —  the 
time,  twenty -four  hours  —  the  change  of  place  not  frequent 
—  nothing  me^o- dramatic  —  no  surprises,  no  starts,  nor  trap- 
doors, nor  opportunities  'for  tossing  their  heads  and  kicking 
their  heels'  —  and  no  love  —  the  grand  ingredient  of  a  modern 
play."  And  again  (LJ.  V,24-3),  "There  are  neither  rings,  nor 
mistakes,  nor  starts,  nor  outrageous  ranting  villains,  nor  melo- 
drama in  it."  He  speaks  (LJ.  V,  372)  of  "simplicity  of  plot 
....  and  the  avoidance  of  rant."  Upon  the  appearance  of  each 
of  his  plays  he  repeats  his  disclaimer  of  any  ambition  for  suc- 
cess upon  the  stage,  and  I,  for  one,  see  no  reason  to  doubt 
his  sincerity '.    Medwin  and  others  also  record  this  detestation 

*  The  following  are  the  chief  references.  P.  IV,  337;  P.  V,  9  and 
338;  LJ.  IV,  55,  71,  and  137;  LJ.  V,  81,  167,  218,  221,  223,  228,  257,  295 
and  304. 


Byron  and  the  Contemporary  Drama.  37 

of  writing  for  the  stage.  This  attitude  is  succinctly  expressed 
when  he  writes  (LJ.  V,  231),  "1  will  never  have  anything  to 
do  willingly  with  the  theatres." 

In  the  autumn  of  1816,  on  his  way  to  Venice,  Byron  met 
at  Milan  the  Italian  dramatist  Monti  with  whose  wo?-ks  he  was 
already  acquainted.  This  meeting  may,  as  Mr.  Coleridge 
suggests,  have  stimulated  his  interest  in  the  modern  pseudo- 
classical  Itahan  drama.  He  had  been  in  Venice  but  a  short 
time  when  he  asked  Murra}^  to  get  Dr.  Moore's  "account  of 
the  Do(ie  Valiere'  transcribed  for  him,  adding,  "I  mean  to  write 
a  tragedy  upon  the  subject  which  appears  to  me  very  dramatic" 
(LJ.  IV,  59).  But  he  for  the  time  abandoned  his  intention,  for 
there  was  little  opportunit}'  for  such  work  in  Venice.  It  required 
a  complete  change  of  surroundings  to  fit  him  for  the  concen- 
trated effort  of  tragedy.  This  change  came  about  in  1819 
through  his  liaison  with  the  Countess  Guiccioli,  by  means  of 
which,  as  Shelley  testifies  \  Byron  was  "greatly  improved  in 
every  respect."  Marino  Faliero  advanced  slowly  and  some- 
times with  discouragement,  amid  revolutionary  plans  and  ama- 
tory troubles.  That  he  was  seriously  essaying  a  new  dramatic 
genre  is  shown  by  many  passages  in  his  letters.  Thus  (LJ.  V, 
218),  "I  am  .  .  .  fuUy  persuaded  that  this  [i.  e.  to  "produce 
a  great  tragedj^"]  is  not  to  be  done  by  following  the  old 
dramatists,  who  are  fuU  of  gross  faults,  pardoned  only  for  the 
beauty  of  their  language;  but  b}'  writing  naturally  and  regu- 
larli/,  and  producing  regular  tragedies.  ...  I  have  .  .  .  tried 
a  sketch  in  Marino  Faliero;  but  many  people  think  my  talent 
'essentiallij  undramatic' ,  and  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  they  are 
not  right."  Again  he  wrote  (LJ.  V,  347),  "My  dramatic  simpli- 
city is  studiously  Greek,  and  must  continue  so:  no  reform  ever 
succeeded  at  first.  I  admire  the  old  English  dramatists;  but 
this  is  quite  another  field,  and  has  nothing  to  do  with  theirs. 
I  want  to  make  a  regular  English  drama,  no  matter  whether 
for  the  stage  or  not,  which  is  not  my  object,  —  but  a  mental 
theatre." 

Concrete  examples  were  of  more  importance  in  Byron's 
mind  than  abstract  theories.     Of  such   examples  the  most  in- 


1  Letters  U,  893. 


38  Chapter  Two. 

fluential  were  the  plays  of  Alfieri.  The  ItaUan  dramatist  has, 
indeed,  been  considered  by  some  critics  as  the  chief  cause  of 
Byron's  adoption  of  the  classical  form  of  drama,  but  this  is, 
I  think,  to  overestimate  that  influence. 

Byron  acquired  early  an  acquaintance  with  Italian  and  he 
had  not  lost  all  command  of  it  when  he  went  to  Italy  in  1817. 
This  previous  knowledge  is  alluded  to  in  various  letters  ^ 
Moreover,  it  has  been  remarked,  "wie  sehr  Byron  auch  sonst  in  ge- 
danken  bei  den  Italienern  weilt,  beweisen  die  vielen  italienischen 
ausdrticke  und  citate,  die  sein  tagebuch  gerade  damals  aufzu- 
weisen  hat.  ...  So  waren  denn  Byron's  italienische  sprach- 
kenntnisse,  als  er  im  Oktober  1816  nach  Italien  kam,  schon 
ziemhch  bedeutend."^ 

It  were  a  work  of  supererogation  to  state  in  detail  the 
indebtedness  of  Byron  to  the  influence  of  Alfieri,  since  this 
has  already  been  done  by  Anna  Pudbres  in  her  article  "Lord 
Byron,  the  admirer  and  imitator  of  Alfieri." '  I  shall  here  give 
a  summary  of  her  results  with  certain  restrictions,  for  I  think 
she  overestimates  the  "imitation"  and  even  the  "admiration." 
How,  for  example,  would  she  account  for  the  following  remark, 
written  during  the  composition  of  Marino  Faliero,  in  which 
the  influence  of  Alfieri  is  most  marked?  "The  Italians  have 
as  yet  no  tragedy  —  Alfieri's  are  political  dialogues,  except 
Mirra''  (LJ.  V,  64). 

Monti  and  Alfieri  were  mentioned  in  Byron's  journal  as 
early  as  February  20,  1814  (LJ.  II,  388),  when  he  contrasts 
them  favourably  with  Schiller."  Alfieri's  dramas  are  modeled 
upon  those  of  Gorneille  and  Racine.  There  are  the  simpHcity 
of  plot,  the  brevity  of  action  (embracing  hardly  more  than  the 
catastrophe),  the  adherence  to  the  unities,  the  lack  of  comic 
scenes,  the  abundance  of  rhetoric,  and  the  general  stateliness 
and  monotony,  which  are  characteristic  of  the  French  pseudo- 
classical  drama.  The  marked  contrast  with  the  contemporary 
drama  in  England  impressed  Byron,  and  his  admiration  for  the 


1  See,  e  g.,  LJ.  I,  308  ("tolerably  master  of Italian"). 

2  F.  Maychrzak,  "Lord  Byron  als  iibersetzer",   Ei/gl.  Stud.  XXI,  393. 
In  this  article  the  subsequent  steps  of  Byron's  mastery  of  Italian  are  traced. 

»  Engl.  Stud.  XXXIII,  40  f. 
*  See  also  Fuhrmann,  p.  100. 


Byron  and  the  Contemporary  Drama.  39 

Italian  school  is  recorded  in  various  letters.  In  Childe  Harold 
(LJ.  IV,  54),  he  mentions  Alfieri's  among  those  ashes  which 
make  holier  the  holy  precincts  of  Santa  Croce,  and  in  a  letter 
(LJ.  IV,  114),  the  tomb  of  Alfieri,  along  with  those  of  Machia- 
velli,  Michael  Angelo,  and  Galileo,  is  said  to  make  Santa  Croce 
"the  Westminster  Abbey  of  Italy."  His  letters  and  journals, 
and  those  of  Moore  and  Hobhouse,  record  various  visits  to  the 
theatre  and  opera  at  Venice.  On  one  occasion,  at  a  perfor- 
mance of  Mirra,  he  burst  into  tears  (LJ.  IV,  339).  He  was 
similarly  affected  "a  Ravenna  ad  una  rappresentazione  del 
Filippo  d' Alfieri."^  The  Countess  GuiccioH,  Lady  Blessington, 
and  ]\Iedwin  have  recorded  other  instances  of  this  admiration,' 
an  important  cause  of  which  was  probably  the  recurring  note 
of  the  love  of  liberty  in  the  writings  of  Alfieri. 

It  is  going  too  far,  however,  to  regard  Byron  as  the  "dis- 
ciple" and  Alfieri  as  the  "master."  ^  Pudbres  (p.  48  f.)  shows 
that  La  Congiura  de  Pazzi  served  in  some  degree  as  the  model 
of  Marino  Faliero,  but  the  resemblance  of  the  plot  of  the  latter 
play  to  Otway's  Venice  Preserved  is  even  closer,  and  the  par- 
allelisms in  structure  to  Alfieri's  play  are  chiefly  such  as 
would  naturally  occur  between  plays  on  kindred  subjects  follo- 
wing the  lines  of  the  regular  drama.  In  the  simplicity  of  diction, 
amounting  to  baldness,  which  distinguishes  Marino  Faliero  from 
Byron's  other  dramas,  there  is  cleai'er  evidence  of  the  influence 
of  Alfieri's  austere  style,  but  the  excess  of  sheer  rhetoric  in 
both  dramatists  is  a  characteristic  of  all  pseudo-classical  plays 
and  derives  from  the  French  tragedians  and  through  them 
from  Seneca.  It  is  folly  to  attempt  to  find  in  Alfieri  the 
original  of  the  peculiarities  of  Byron's  metre.  Such  as  they 
are,  and  in  them  there  is  nothing  very  striking,  they  have 
abundant  English  prototypes. 

Alfieri's  direct  influence  upon  Sardanapalus  was  very  slight 
Pudbres  finds  evidence  of  borrowings  from  Filippo,  the  cha- 
racter of  Myrrha  resembling  that  of  Isabella,  and  of  Sardana- 
palus that  of  Carlo;  but  the  traditional  autobiogi'aphical  inter- 


^  LJ.  IV,  339,  note,  quoting  from  the  Countess  Quiccioli. 
2  See  Pudbres,  p.  42—45. 
'  Cf.  Pudbres,  passim. 


40  Chapter  Two. 

pretation  of  M5T:*rha  as  the  Countess  Guiccioli  and  Sardana- 
palus  as  Byron  himself  seems  to  me  more  nearly  correct. 
Alfieri  may  have  furnished  hints.  The  name  Myrrha  was 
probabl}'  suggested  by  Mirra.  Compare,  however,  Ruskin's 
suggestion \  "Perhaps  some  even  of  the  attentive  readers  of 
Byron  ma}'  not  have  observed  the  choice  of  the  three  names 
—  Myrrha  (bitter  incense),  Marina  (sea  lady),  Angiolina  (httle 
angel)  —  in  relation  to  the  plots  of  the  three  plays."  This  is 
pretty,  but  fanciful. 

Finally  it  may  be  noted  that  The  Two  Foscari  shows  no 
traces  of  direct  borrowing  from  Alfieri.  Byron's  indebtedness 
is,  then,  rather  for  inspiration  than  for  direct  assistance. 

Sardanapalus,  The  Two  Foscari,  and  Cain  followed  rapidly 
between  Januarj^  and  September,  1821.  The  two  former  are 
further  exercises  in  the  regular  drama;  the  last  stands  apart 
and  nearer  Manfred.  Heaven  and  Earth  is  a  sequel  to  Cain. 
The  roughl}^  dramatic  form  in  which  these  two  pieces  are  cast 
shows  that  the  fascination  of  the  drama  had  not  passed,  yet 
is  a  token  of  the  reaction  from  the  severe  restraint  that  Byron 
had  previously  imposed  upon  himself.  This  reaction  goes 
further  in  Werner,  which  B3'ron  now  took  up  once  more  and 
completed  along  the  lines  of  the  Romantic  drama. 

The  Deformed  Transformed,  which  brings  to  a  close  the 
series  of  plays,  is  a  formless,  chaotic  piece,  of  slight  value,  in 
which  it  is  apparent  that  Byron  had  left  behind  him  the  de- 
sire for  classical  form  and  restraint,  and  was  discontented  with 
the  drama  as  a  medium  of  expression.  By  this  thne  he  had 
fully  "found  himself"  and  was  devoting  his  energies  to  his 
greatest  work  —  Don  Juan. 

This  survey  of  Byron's  development  as  a  dramatist  has, 
I  think,  made  clear  how  logical  was  his  advocac}-  of  the  "regu- 
lar" drama.  It  was  a  reaction  from  extravagance  and  form- 
lessness. Away  from  England,  that  reaction  gradually  lost 
force,  and  he  wrote  first  a  play  in  the  Romantic  manner,  then 
a  semi-dramatic  piece,  and  then  ceased  writing  dramas  alto- 
gether. The  course  of  this  development  can  well  be  illustrated 
by  a  diagram,  as  follows. 

^  Fiction,  Fair  and  Foul,  Library  ed.  of  Works,  ed.  E.  T.  Cook  and 
Alex.  Wedderburn,  London,  Allen,  1903  f.,  XXXIV,  362,  note. 


Technique.  41 

Sardanajialus. 
(complete  classic  form). 

/  \ 

Marino  Falicro.  The  Two  Foscari. 

(attempt  at  classic  form).        (less  rigorous). 

/  \ 

Manfred.  Cain  and  Heaven  and  Earth. 

(not  for  stage)  (return  to  English  tradition) 

/  \ 

Werner  (I).  Werner  (11) 

(for  stage)  (concession  to  Romantic  drama) 

\ 

The  Deformed  Transformed. 
(crudely  dramatic  only). 


Chapter  Three. 
Technique. 

Byron's  plays  are  weakest  on  the  technical  side.  Of  this 
he  was  probably  himself  aware.  The  fact  that  they  violate 
various  principles  of  technique  is  a  partial  explanation  of  their 
small  vogue  at  the  time  of  their  publication  and  of  the  gener- 
ally low  estimate  in  which  they  are  held.  An  examination 
of  their  technique  is  therefore  instructive  for  the  formation  of 
a  correct  estimate  of  the  faults  and  merits  of  the  plays. 

The  beginning  of  the  struggle  in  which  the  will  of  the 
protagonist  is  engaged  with  an  opposing  force,  must  take  place 
either  within  the  confines  of  the  drama  itself,  or  at  some 
time  previous  to  the  opening  scene.  Divergence  in  this  matter 
sharply  differentiates  the  classical  fi'om  the  romantic  drama. 
In  Shakespeare  the  actual  beginning  of  the  conflict  is  presented 
in  the  play.  Thus,  in  Romeo  and  Juliet  it  does  not  arise  until 
Romeo,  a  Montague,  falls  in  love  with  Juliet,  a  Gapulet.  The 
very  moment  is  indicated  by  Juliet's  words,  "My  only  love 
born  of  my  only  hate."  There  is  shown  not  merely  the  clash 
and  result,  but  the  inception  and  growth,  of  opposition. 

In  the  ''regular"  drama,  concomitant  with  the  limitation 
of  time,  is  the  almost  invariable  exclusion  from  the  drama  of 
the  beginning  of  the  external  confHct.  This  is  one  of  the 
great  restrictions  of  the  classical  model,  which  cannot  portray 


42  Chapter  Three. 

the  causes,  in  their  inception  and  development,  as  well  as  the 
consequences,  of  the  struggle.  In  general  it  may  be  said  that 
classical  tragedy  commences  at  a  point  immediately  before  the 
crisis  and  thence  sweeps  down  vehemently  to  the  catastrophe. 
This  is  the  method  which  Byron  employs  in  his  historical 
plays.  All  three  open  with  the  opposing  forces  already  arrayed. 
In  Marino  Faliero,  had  the  plot  been  of  Shakespeare's  handling, 
one  can  imagine  an  opening  scene  in  which  Steno  would  have 
been  shown  scratching  his  wanton  insult  upon  the  wall  and 
revealing  incidentally  adequate  reasons  for  so  doing.  This 
would  have  been  followed  by  the  discovery  of  the  inscription 
by  Faliero.  "We  cannot  but  believe,"  wrote  an  early  critic,^ 
"that,  if  the  story  of  Faliero  .  .  .  had  fallen  into  the  hands 
of  the  barbarian  Shakespeare,  the  commencement  of  the  play 
would  have  been  placed  considerably  earlier,  that  time  would 
have  been  given  for  the  gradual  development  of  those  strong 
lines  of  character,  which  were  to  decide  the  fate  of  the  hero," 
etc.  Westenholz'  signalizes  as  the  greatest  flaw  in  the  play 
"die  unklarheit,  in  welcher  wir  iiber  die  speciellen  ursachen 
der  verschworung,  der  ja  auch  der  Doge  nur  beitritt,  verbleiben. 
Wir  sehen  nichts  von  den  angeblich  durch  die  aiistokraten 
ausgeiibten  grausamkeiten,  und  was  voUends  den  Bertram, 
welchem  seine  kameraden  schon  von  vornherein  *um  seiner 
sanftmut,  nicht  seines  mangels  an  treue  willen'  misstrauen, 
bewogen  hat,  dem  blutigen  und  gefahrlichen  unternehmen  sich 
anzuschliessen,  das  begreifen  wir  am  allerwenigsten."  Had 
Byron  constructed  Sardanapalus  along  the  lines  of  English 
tragedy  there  might  have  been  an  opening  scene  in  which 
would  have  been  depicted  the  court  of  Nineveh  darkened  only 
by  a  distant  cloud  of  discontent;  this  followed  by  the  represen- 
tation of  Arbaces  and  Beleses  in  conference,  planning  theu" 
conspiracy  and  revealing  their  motives  in  undertaking  it.  But 
in  the  play  as  designed  by  Byron  these  events  had  to  be 
presupposed,  and  knowledge  of  them  conveyed  to  the  audience' 
in  the  exposition.    So  also  in  The  Two  Foscari  the  action  be- 


»  Quarterly  Review,  XXXII,  488. 

"  tJber  Byrons  historische  Dramen,  Stuttgart,  1890,  p.  19. 
'  The  word  "audience"  is  used  purely  conventionally  and  interchange- 
ably with  "reader". 


Technique.  43 

gins  in  the  last  stages  of  the  conflict.'  Even  in  Werner  the 
hero  has  lost  his  birth-right  and  been  driven  from  home  years 
before  the  opening  of  the  play.  There  is  thus  at  the  commence- 
ment of  Byron's  plays  a  strong  obstacle  to  their  success. 
Readers  are  asked  to  interest  themselves  in  the  final  stages 
of  the  fortunes  of  people  with  whom  they  have  had  no  previous 
acquaintance.  This  is  a  serious  demand  upon  patient  attention. 
It  results  primarily  from  obedience  to  the  unities,'^  which 
requires  the  rejection  of  all  save  the  last  and  most  indispensable 
periods  of  development.  This  was  a  reasonable  demand  upon 
the  Greek  audience,  for  classical  tragedy  had  for  subjects  myths 
known  to  all.  The  story  being  familiar,  the  audience  willmgly 
dispensed  with  the  earlier  portions  and  watched  the  climax 
and  catastrophe.  Not  so  with  Byron ;  his  three  tragedies  upon 
historical  subjects  dealt  with  the  fortunes  of  persons  of  whom 
many  Englishmen  had  never  heard.  It  was  therefore  his  duty 
to  cultivate  an  interest  in  the  character  of  the  protagonist  by 
the  gradual  development  of  the  tragic  situation  and  the  gradual 
unfolding  of  the  elements  of  his  characters.  Instead  of  so 
doing,  Byron  hurls  his  reader  not  merely  in  medias  res  but 
into  the  very  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter.  He  thus  gains 
that  compactness  which  he  sought  so  anxiously,  but  he  loses 
more  than  he  gains.  He  risks  the  interest  of  all  readers.  Of 
this  difficulty  he  must  have  been  partially  aware,  for  of  Marino 
Faliero  he  wrote,  "Recollect  that,  without  previously  reading 
the  Chronicle,  it  is  difficult  to  understand  the  tragedy.  So, 
translate.  I  had  this  reprinted  separately  on  purpose"  (LJ.  V, 
62).  This  is  an  admission  of  inadequate  technique.  A  drama  ought 
not  to  depend  upon  explanatory  extracts  from  sources.  It  should 
be  independent  of  all  externals,  perfect  and  entire  within  itself. 
The  first  part  of  a  drama  —  the  "introduction"  or  "expo- 
sition" —  must  convey  information  of  events  preceding  the 
opening  of  the  play,  knowledge  of  which  is  needed  for  an 
understanding  of  the  situation.  It  may  also  be  a  sort  of 
prelude,  serving  to  indicate  the  tone  of  the  piece,  somewhat 
as  does  the  "Vorspiel"  to  an  opera.  In  its  primary  capacity  it 
is  of  greater  importance  in  the  "regular"  drama  than  in  Shake- 

^  Cf.  Quarterly  Review  XXVII,  506. 
'  See  Appendix  I. 


44  Chapter  Three. 

speare,  since  there  is  more  information  to  be  conveyed.  This 
may  be  imparted  in  various  ways:  by  a  prologue  more  or  less 
disconnected  from  the  actual  drama,  by  a  soliloquy  delivered  by 
one  of  the  dramatis  personae,  or  by  dialogue.  Of  these  the 
second  and  third  methods,  and  perhaps  the  first,  are  employed 
by  Byron. 

The  prologue-opening  developed  along  several  lines  in  the 
English  drama.'  The  simplest  form  was  the  presentation  in 
concise  form  of  the  entire  course  of  the  action,  as  in  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  the  opening  chorus  of  which  is  entirely  independent 
of  the  exposition  which  follows  in  the  opening  scenes.  Such 
a  prologue  is  related  to  the  dumb-show  which  precedes  the 
spoken  play -within -the -play  in  Hamlet.  For  the  most  part, 
however,  the  Elizabethan  prologue  became  more  and  more 
separated  from  the  action,  and  resolved  itself  into  an  address 
of  the  poet  to  the  audience,  containing  greetings  and  imploring 
a  hearing.  Of  this  type  the  great  opening  chorus  of  Henrij  V 
is  representative.  In  later  times  the  prologue  became  in- 
creasingly "occasional"  and  is  to-day  retained  only  for  special 
events  and  gala  performances.'-^  Of  this  type  is  Byron's  Address 
for  the  Opening  of  Drury  Lane,  recited  in  October,  1812,  at  the 
first  performance  in  the  new  theatre. 

Though  an  example  of  this  kind  of  prologue  is  numbered 
among  his  works,  Byron's  dramas  have'none  such.  But  closely 
connected  with  the  earlier  form  of  the  prologue,  in  which  the 
purpose  is  to  convey  information,  is  the  opening  soliloquy 
wherein  one  of  the  characters,  meditating  upon  the  course 
of  events,  imparts  knowledge  of  the  state  of  affairs.  The 
danger  of  this  method  is  that  an  audience  will  not  willingly 
accept  a  long  opening  recitative.  Shakespeare  employs  is  but 
once,  and  then  challenges  attention  by  putting  the  hues  into 
the  mouth  of  the  protagonist  himself,  Richard  III,  a  character 
in  whom  the  audience  is  already  interested.  B3a-on  uses  the 
device  twice.  In  Manfred,  largely  monologue  and  only  pseudo- 
dramatic,   it  is   the  natural   way    of  bringing   the   reader   into 


1  See  A  Study  of  the  Prologue  and  Epilogue  in  English  Literature, 
by  G.  S.  B.,  1884. 

^  A  recent  example  is  the  prologue  written  by  Mr.  Owen  Seaman  and  deli- 
vered by  Mr.  Forbes-Robertson  at  the  royal  performance  in  Coronation  Week,  19 1 1 . 


Technique.  45 

touch  with  the  situation.  Here  he  had,  moreover,  the  authority 
of  Goethe.  The  opening  scene  of  Sardanapalim  cannot  be  so 
justified.  The  long  soliloquy  of  Salamenes  contains  no  infor- 
mation that  could  not  be,  and  hardly  any  that  is  not,  given  in 
the  following  dialogue-scene.  Byron  had  in  view  a  definite  dra- 
matic principle  and  evidently  regarded  this  initial  soliloquy  as  but 
half  distinct  from  a  prologue  directed  to  the  audience  and  closely 
related  to  the  Chorus  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  which  surveys  the  situ- 
ation yet  tells  nothing  that  is  not  more  fully  imparted  in  the 
following  expository  scenes.  This  is  the  "Euripidean"  opening. 
Confirmation  of  this  view  is  given  by  a  slight  fact  to  which 
attention  has  not  been  called.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  soh- 
loquy  the  entrance  of  Sardanapalus  and  his  train  is  marked 
"Scene  11",  after  the  classical  French  fashion  of  numbering 
according  to  important  entrances  and  exits.  But  throughout 
the  rest  of  the  play,  and  in  his  other  regular  dramas,  Byron 
fails  so  to  number  the  scenes.  He  seems  therefore  to  have 
regarded  this  soliloquy  as  a  thing  apart,  and  consequently 
marked  it  off  from  what  folloAvs  in  much  the  same  manner  as 
the  prologues  are  marked  off  in  Plautus. 

Artistic  exposition  is  generally  best  attained  by  means 
of  dialogue.  In  Shakespearean  drama  it  is  almost  always 
employed,  and  is  often  combined  with  action.  The  cry  "Down 
with  the  Capulets!  down  with  the  Montagues!"  is  heard  fi'om 
the  midst  of  an  exciting  brawl,  and  exposes  w^ith  the  utmost 
conciseness  the  background  of  the  coming  conflict.  Shakespeare 
thus  presents  "the  introduction  of  his  action  as  an  ^organic 
part  of  the  action  itself,"  taking  "the  spectators  in  medias  res, 
while  he  is  really  building  the  foundation  of  his  plot,"^  Byron 
never  reaches  such  heights  of  di'amatic  art.  His  method  is 
rather  akin  to  that  used  in  A  Comedy  of  Errors,  before  Shakes- 
peare was  a  master  of  technique,  and  in  The  Tempest,  when  he 
could  afford  to  be  careless  of  such  externals.  The  speeches  of  Aeg- 
eon  and  Prospero  are  obviously  directed  as  much  to  the  audience 
as  to  the  Duke  and  Miranda  respectively.  Byron  seldom  entire- 
ly escapes  this  difficulty,  and  he  is  shadowed  by  that  bane  of  the 
French  development  of  the  dialogue-opening,  —  the  confidant. 

"■  A.  W.  Ward,  art.  "Drama,"  Encyc.  Brit.,  11th.  ed.,  VIII,  477.  See 
further  A.  C.Bradley,  Shakespearean  Tragedy,  London,  Macmillan,  1908,  p. 43. 


1 


46  Chapter  Three. 

With  this  preliminary  review  of  expository  methods,  I 
proceed  to  an  examination  of  Byron's  expositions  in  the  indi- 
vidual plays,  taking  them  up  in  chronological  order. 

Manfred  opens  with  a  soliloquy,  justified  by  the  all-important 
character  of  the  protagonist,  by  the  precedent  of  the  English 
and  German  Faust,  and  by  its  service  as  a  key-note,  indicating 
the  "Stimmung"  of  the  piece.  The  essential  factors  of  the 
situation  —  sin,  loss,  and  grief,  the  quest  of  knowledge  and 
forgetfulness,  and  the  search  into  the  m5^steries  of  life  and 
death  —  are  aU  alluded  to  in  the  opening  speech,  and  while 
fui'ther  Ught  is  later  thrown  upon  Manfred's  life  and  character, 
we  are  at  once  apprised  of  the  information  needed  for  an 
understanding  of  the  situation.  The  simpHcity  of  the  action 
of  the  piece  makes  the  exposition  a  matter  of  little  difficulty. 
The  early  introduction  of  the  supernatural  serves,  though  in 
sHghter  degree,  the  same  purpose  as  in  Macbeth  and  Hamlety 
viz.,  to  give  the  proper  tone-color  and  to  excite  the  interest 
of  the  audience  or  reader. 

In  Byron's  first  complete  drama,  Marino  Faliero,  the  ex- 
position is  accomplished  with  much  skill.  It  is  in  dialogue 
form,  and  extends  through  two  scenes.  The  first,  a  variant 
of  the  confidant  type,  presents  two  minor  characters  who  speak 
of  the  "struggling  patience"  of  the  Doge,  who  is  awaiting  the 
verdict  in  the  trial  of  a  patrician.  That  patrician  has  insulted 
him,  yet  because  of  the  privileges  of  rank,  will  probably  escape 
serious  punishment.  Thus  in  twenty -nine  lines  the  essential 
elements  of  the  plot  are  set  forth  —  the  overwrought  state  of 
FaUero's  mind  and  the  boundless  hcense  of  the  aristocracy. 
At  the  same  time  suspense  as  to  the  issue  of  the  trial  stimu- 
lates the  interest  with  which  the  reader  awaits  what  is  to 
follow.  In  the  second  scene  the  Doge  is  shown  awaiting  the 
result  of  the  trial.  With  the  paltry  sentence  imposed  upon 
Steno,  by  which  the  Senate  redoubles  the  original  insult,  the 
tragic  conflict,  the  earlier  steps  of  which  do  not  come  within 
the  limits  of  the  drama,  reaches  an  acute  stage,  and  the  "rise" 
of  the  tragic  actions  begins. 

The  opening  soliloquy  of  Sardanapalus  combines  expo- 
sition with  tone-setting.  The  central  idea  of  the  di'ama  is  set 
forth  in  these  lines: 


Techniqne.  47 

"If  born  a  peasant  he  had  been  a  man 

To  have  reached  an  empire:  to  an  empire  born, 

He  will  bequeath  none;  nothing  but  a  name"  (I,  i,  14f.) 

The  contradictory  elements  of  the  king's  character  are  indi- 
cated and  the  nature  of  the  coming  conflict  is  foreshadowed; 
but  were  the  entire  speech  removed  and  the  play  made  to 
begin  with  the  second  scene,  the  portion  of  the  exposition 
remaining  would  suffice  to  make  the  play  entirely  comprehen- 
sible. The  first  scene  is  therefore  a  flaw  in  technique.  Such 
a  recitative  cannot  but  be  tedious,  and  in  this  case  involves 
repetition  which  might  well  have  been  avoided.^ 

The  exposition  of  The  Two  Foscari  is  practically  identical 
with  that  of  Marino  Faliero.  The  conflict  has  been  growing 
from  a  time  long  before  the  opening  of  the  play,  when  we 
come  face  to  face  with  the  individual  in  opposition  to  the 
state.  The  simple  situation  is  presented  through  the  device 
of  dialogue  between  two  characters,  from  which  one  learns 
of  the  accusations  of  treason  brought  against  the  prisoner,  of 
the  tortures  to  which  he  has  been  subjected,  of  the  "Roman 
fortitude"  of  the  Doge  who  sits  at  the  trial  of  his  only  son, 
and  of  the  "hereditary  hate"  of  Loredano,  who  is  bent  upon 
the  ruin  of  the  Foscari,  and  who  is  one  of  the  speakers  in 
this  expository  dialogue  —  an  arrangement  ^which  strengthens 
the  dramatic  justification  of  this  opening.  Curiosity  to  see 
Jacopo  Foscari  has  in  this  way  been  stimulated,  and  just  as 
in  Marino  Faliero,  when  the  needed  information  has  been 
given  the  protagonist  is  revealed,  so  here  attention  is  promptly 
centred  upon  the  younger  Foscari.  His  first  words  reveal 
the  motive  that -guides  his  conduct  throughout  the  play.  He 
pays  little  heed  to  the  words  of  Barbarigo,  but  says 

"I'm  faint; 
Let  me  approach,  I  pray  you,  for  a  breath 
Of  air,  yon  window  which  o'erlooks  the  waters"  (I,  i,  86  f.) 

As  he  stands  at  the  window  words  of  remembrance  of  other 
times  come   to  his   Ups;    the  very    central   fact  of   the   entire 

*■  A  minor  oversight  is  the  failure  to  account  for  Salamenes'  knowledge 
of  the  conspiracy  at  the  opening  of  the  play.  The  king  admits  that  he  knows 
nothing  of  how  Salamenes  came  by  this  knowledge  (I,  ii,  461),  but  Byron 
should  not  have  left  the  reader  in  the  same  ignorance. 


48  Chapter  Three. 

play  is  conveyed  to  the  reader,  not  by  dialogue  or  soliloquy, 
but  in  a  way  as  simple  and  inevitable  as  Nature.  A  suffering 
man  asks  for  air,  and  the  sight  of  Venice,  before  him  in  her 
beauty,  brings  to  his  lips  the  inmost  feelings  of  his  soul.  It 
is  exposition  within  the  action. 

An  advantage  in  the  choice  of  subjects  founded  upon 
national  history  or  legend,  notable  in  the  case  of  Greek  tra- 
gedy and  the  Elizabethan  chronicle-play,  is  that  the  dramatist 
may  presuppose  a  certain  familiarity  on  the  part  of  the  audience 
with  the  theme,  and  to  that  extent  reduce  and  simplify  the 
exposition.  Byron  did  not  have  this  advantage  in  his  histori- 
cal plays  and  suffered  accordingly;  but  it  is  well  illustrated 
by  Cain.  There  the  famihar  story  does  away  with  the  need 
of  any  exposition  at  all,  save  such  as  will  serve  to  emphasize 
distinctions  of  character.  This  is  accomplished  by  the  opening 
prayers  of  Adam,  and  his  family  (which  also  serve  as  a  sort 
of  prelude),  and  bj^  the  ensuing  dialogue  in  which  the  character 
of  Gain  is  sharply  differentiated  from  the  rest.  Without 
further  exposition  the  action  then  proceeds.  Heaven  and  Earth, 
a  dramatic  episode  only,  has  like  simplicity  of  exposition;  the 
disobedient  love  of  the  two  sisters  is  shown  first  in  dialogue 
and  then  by  the  action  of  the  play. 

Both  versions  of  Werner  employ  the  dialogue  opening, 
but  the  more  artistic  form  of  this,  in  which  it  is  cai'ried  on 
between  minor  characters,  thus  stimulating  interest  and  expect- 
ancy, (e.  g.,  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  Tartuffe,  The  Two  Foscari), 
is  here  impossible,  since  the  situation  requires  that  Werner 
and  Josephine  be  alone.  The  objection  thus  arises  that  Werner 
recounts  to  his  wife  a  whole  series  of  events  of  which  she  must 
be  well  aware,  but  of  which  it  is  necessary  that  the  audience 
be  informed.  Moreover  these  facts  are  set  forth  at  intolerable 
length,  and  in  one  place  Werner,  speaking  solus,  i.  e.  medi- 
tating,^ says,  " —  Kruitzer  (such  the  name  I  then  bore)"  (I,  i,  568), 
a  fact  of  which  he  could  have  needed  no  reminder. 


^  The  soliloquy  is,  of  course,  not  "talking  to  oneself",  but  simply  the 
one  means  afforded  of  giving  dramatic  expression  to  thought,  and  as  such 
is  a  justifiable  dramatic  convention;  though  this  clumsy  way  of  getting 
within  the  mind  of  a  character  is  a  disadvantage  of  the  drama  as  compared 
with  the  epic.     When  Byron  employs  it  he  does  so  almost  always  as  a  sym- 


Technique.  49 

Finally,  the  exposition  of  The  Deformed  Transformed  is 
accomplished  by  means  of  the  action,  which  explains  itself 
even  while  getting  under  way.  The  crudity  of  the  plot  makes 
the  introductory  portion  very  slight,  and  it  is  effected  in  a 
few  lines. 

The  exposition  of  a  drama  is  followed  by  the  "rise"  towards 
the  climax.  This  "rise"  is  sometimes  introduced  by  a  brief 
transition,  called  the  "exciting  force"  or  stimulus.  The  initial 
complication  commences  when  first,  however  obscurely,  the 
protagonist  feels  that  the  expression  of  his  individuality  clashes 
with  the  general  good,  or  rather,  —  since  often  he  has,  or 
thinks  he  has,  the  general  good  at  heart,  —  with  the  pervading 
spirit  of  his  surroundings.  This  animating  force  varies  greatly 
in  length,  in  prominence,  and  in  position.  It  is  of  note  chiefly 
in  the  Shakespearean  drama,  because  in  the  classical  mode  the 
"exciting  force"  has  often  accompHshed  its  purpose  before  the 
beginning  of  the  play.  It  is  sometimes  present  from  the  very 
beginning  of  the  exposition.  This  is  the  case  in  Richard  III, 
in  w'hich  it  is  the  villainy  of  the  protagonist,  well  defined  from 
the  fu'st,  that  precipitates  the  tragic  conflict.  So  also  in  Sar- 
dayiapalus,  the  self-indulgent  ease  of  the  king  is  the  stimulus. 
In  these  examples  the  force  is  subjective,  propelling  from  within 
the  soul  of  the  protagonist.     In  others  it  is  objective;  as  when 

bolical  means  of  expressing  unspoken  thought,  and  frequently  makes  this 
pui-pose  more  clear  by  some  reference  to  "thought,"  "musing,"  "meditation," 
"wrapt  in  devotions,"  etc.  But  where  the  soliloquy  is  used  in  exposition  it 
carries  with  it  an  implication  of  spoken  words;  it  is  thus  used  by  Byron 
only  in  the  opening  speech  by  Salamenes  in  Sardanapalus  and  in  the  passage 
from  Werner  quoted  above.  The  number  of  monologues  in  each  of  Byron's 
plays,  exclusive  of  brief  "asides,"  is  as  follows:  Manfred,  7;  Marino  Faliero, 
6 ;  Sardanapalus,  7 ;  The  Two  Foscari,  2 ;  Cain,  2 ;  Heaven  and  Earth, 
3;  Werner,  8;  The  Deformed  Transformed,  1.  This  enumeration  may  be 
compared  with  the  number  of  soliloquies  in  a  few  typical  plays,  chosen  at 
random:  Hamlet,  9;  Othello,  8;  The  Duchess  of  Mai  ft,  4;  The  Borderers, 
6;  Queen  Mary,  6.  The  modern  stage  tends  to  avoid  monologue.  Freytag 
says  (The  Technique  of  the  Drama,  trans  by  E.  J.  MacEwan,  Chicago,  Scott, 
Foresman,  [1894],  p.  219),  "The  spectator  cares  little  for  the  quiet  expression 
of  an  individual;  he  prefers  to  gather  for  himself  the  connection  and  the  con- 
trasts of  characters,  from  a  dialogue."  The  best  of  Byron's  soliloquies  are 
not  introduced  to  portray  character,  but  as  nature-poetry  to  afford  dramatic 
relief.  See,  for  example,  Manfred  I,  ii;  III,  ii;  III,  iv;  Marino  Faliero  IV,  i; 
Sardanapalus  Act  II  and  Act  FV. 

Hesperia,  B.3.  4 


50  Chapter  Three. 

the  thought  of  killing  Caesar  is  introduced  into  Brutus'  mind, 
or  when  lago  tempts  and  deceives  Othello,  It  is  often  a  m.atter 
of  gradual  growth.  Thus  the  wrongs  done  the  state  b}'  the 
aristocracy  have  for  long  weighed  upon  the  mind  of  Faliero. 
Yet  often  some  one  thing,  slight  in  itself,  added  to  what  has 
gone  before,  becomes  the  actual  exciting  power  that  brings 
disaster.  This  is  admirably  illustrated  by  the  insult  offered  by 
Steno  to  the  Doge  Faliero.  Some  critics  have  complained  that 
the  motivation  of  the  play  is  too  petty  for  tragedy.  This  is 
to  miss  the  point.     Fahero  says: 

"A  spark  creates  the  flame  —  'tis  the  last  drop 
Which  makes  the  cup  run  o'er,  and  mine  was  full 
Already"     (V,  i,  245  f.) 

Steno's  gibe  is  thus  a  perfect  example  of  the  "exciting  force," 
in  itself  of  little  moment,  yet  fraught  with  consequence. 
Shakespeare  would  have  put  it  at  the  conclusion  of  the  ex- 
position ;  Byron  has  imagined  it  occurring  before  the  commen- 
cement of  the  play.  Its  full  significance  is  thus  lost,  and  we 
are  left  to  gather  from  dialogue  the  relation  that  it  bears  to 
the  real  causes  of  the  Doge's  treason.  Matters  are  worse  in 
The  Two  Foscari.  Given  this  theme  as  a  subject  for  tragedy, 
he  stimulus  should  obviously  be  that  which  should  drive  Jacopo 
Foscari,  safe  in  exile,  back  to  Venice  and  death.  There  are 
various  possibilities;  a  rush  of  home-sickness,  induced  by  the 
recurrence  of  some  anniversary,  or  a  meeting  with  some  friend 
from  Venice,  or  false  tidings  of  the  relaxation  of  persecution, 
etc.  But  Byron  requires  that  the  reader  accept  the  situation 
and  offers  no  adequate  explanation.  On  the  other  hand  the 
tragic  force  in  Cain  is  clearly  the  suggestions  by  Lucifer  of 
the  acceptability  of  Abel's  offerings  to  God  (II,  ii,  353).  Jealousy 
is  not  the  motive  of  the  murder;  but  innuendoes  incite 
Gain  thereto. 

The  "rise"  may  be  quite  uniform  and  consistent;  in  some 
dramas  it  fluctuates,  and  this  fluctuation  is  an  added  element 
of  interest.  In  Macbeth,  for  example,  there  are  alternate  moments 
of  doubt  and  resolution,  during  which  honor  and  ambition  are 
alternately  in  control.  During  this  period  of  the  action  the 
fortunes  of  the  hero  are,  on  the  whole,  good.  His  individual 
will  is   making  head  against  the  universal  norm,   till  it   arrive 


Technique.  5  J 

at  a  point  from  whence  it  is  swept  down  to  destruction.  But 
he  must  not  experience  unrelieved  success  during  this  period 
of  growth.  This  woukl  occasion  two  teclniical  flaws;  there 
would  be  a  lack  of  that  interest  which  change  affords,  and 
(what  is  more  important)  when  at  length  the  fortunes  of  the 
hero  begin  to  decline,  never  to  rise  again,  such  a  turn  of  the 
action  would  ill  consort  with  previously  unfluctuating  success. 
Therefore  there  are  usually  a  number  of  more  or  less  clearly 
defined  changes  in  the  position  of  the  hero.  This,  as  an 
analysis  will  show,  is  admirably  illustrated  by  Sardanapalus. 

The  speech  of  Salamenes  with  which  the  play  opens  shows 
the  peril  in  which  the  king  stands,  and  sense  of  this  is  increased 
by  the  sight  of  the  slothful  luxury  in  which  he  lives.  The 
peril  is  made  more  dire  by  his  refusal  to  cancel  the  midnight 
banquet  in  the  pavilion.  Then,  at  the  entreaty  of  his  loved 
mistress,  he  abandons  this  rash  purpose.  There  is  a  corresponding 
rise  in  his  fortunes.  So  ends  the  first  act.  The  conference 
between  the  conspirators,  manifesting  their  bravery  and  resource- 
fulness, now  forces  a  sense  of  the  rising  of  their  star;  but  Balea 
appears  and  tells  them  that  the  feast  is  to  be,  not  in  the 
unprotected  pavilion  which  they  had  planned  to  attack,  but  in 
the  hall.  This  affords  relief  for  concern  as  to  Sardanapalus, 
which  is  increased  by  the  arrest  of  the  rebels  by  Salamanes. 
This  is  the  highest  point  reached  by  the  fortunes  of  the  king. 
The  latter's  interference  in  the  punishment  of  the  conspirators 
shows  that  his  soft  and  yielding  nature  is  the  force  that  is  to 
bring  down  tragedy  upon  him.  But  there  is  a  slight  rise  when 
the  soldier,  touched  by  the  mercy  and  forebearance  of  the  king, 
seems  inclined  to  proceed  no  further  in  the  business.  This  is 
for  an  instant  made  more  apparent  when  the  king's  decree  of 
banishment  is  announced,  but  this  arouses  the  soldier  again. 
There  is  a  consequent  fall  in  the  fortunes  of  Sardanapalus, 
the  sense  of  which  is  made  more  acute  by  the  ensuing  scenes 
of  mercy  and  love,  first  between  the  king  and  Salamenes,  and 
then  between  the  king  and  Myrrha. 

The  period  of  growth  is  not  always  so  elaborately  developed. 
In  Marino  Faliero  it  is  much  simpler.  The  fluctuations  are 
psychological  rather  than  in  extemeil  circumstance.  The  reader 
contrasts  the  growth  of  the  plot  with  the  uneasy  doubts  and 

4* 


52  Chapter  Three. 

hesitations  of  Bertram  that  eventuall}'  lead  to  the  discovery, 
but  the  chief  fluctuations  are  those  in  the  mind  of  the  Doge, 
swayed  alternately  by  loyalty  to  country  and  to  caste.  There 
is  here  a  resemblance  to  Macbeth.  The  Tivo  Foscarl  exhibits 
no  such  rise.  Here  again  the  play  is  badly  constructed.  The 
"gi'owth"  of  the  action  is  absolutely  lacking.  The  fortunes  of 
both  Foscaris,  fi'om  the  commencement  of  the  play,  sink  swiftly 
to  extinction.  It  is  hardly  tragic,  for  there  is  no  resistance; 
it  is  not  dramatic,  for  the  conflict  is  one-sided,  that  is,  it  is 
brute  force  against  impotence,  which  is  no  true  conflict  at  all. 
The  early  part  of  the  action  therefore  leads  to  no  definite 
climax.  Even  more  unsatisfactory  is  Werner  where  the  "rise" 
is  but  vaguely  indicated.  It  may  be  said  to  reach  its  highest 
point  with  Werner's  appearance  in  the  garden  (III,  iv),  and 
with  the  suspicion  of  murder  directed  against  him  by  his  own 
son  the  decline  at  once  sets  in. 

The  other  four  dramatic  pieces  are  too  irregular  to  exhibit 
any  clearly  marked  "rise."  Manfred  is,  from  one  point  of  view, 
a  continued  growth  of  power  over  the  spiritual  world;  defiance, 
first  of  the  spirits  of  the  earth,  then  of  the  evil  principle 
itself,  and  then  of  death.  Or  it  may  be  thought  of  as  a  steady 
decline  towards  death.  It  has,  at  any  rate,  no  pretence  to  the 
dual  movement,  first  upward  and  then  down,  which  is  charac- 
teristic of  drama.  In  Cain,  Lucifer's  efforts  are  to  debase  Gain 
in  his  own  estimation;  the  movement  is  therefore  persistently 
down,  and  lacks  the  dramatic  contrast  exhibited  by  the  "casibus 
iUustrium  vii'orum,"  which  is  the  material  of  tragedy.  Heaven 
and  Earth  and  The  Deformed  Transformed  are,  to  put  it  succinctly, 
all  rise.  Both  pieces  are  fragments.  The  one  ends  with  the 
disappearance  of  the  angels  and  rebellious  women,  defiant  and 
so  far  triumphant;  the  other,  with  Arnold's  successful  capture 
of  OUmpia  and  the  rejoicing  of  the  peasantry  at  the  close  of 
the  war. 

The  "rise"  of  the  action  witnesses  the  inception  or  deve- 
lopment of  the  power  that  is  to  dominate  the  second  half  of 
the  play  and  is  finally  to  destroy  the  original  aggressive  force. 
This  opposition  represents  the  norm;  and  its  rise  should  be 
accomplished  by  degrees  so  as  to  forestall  objections  on  the 
score  of  deorum  ex  machina.    The  great  example  of  this  is  the 


Technique.  53 

character  of  Macduff.  His  refusal  to  attend,  first  the  coronation 
and  then  the  banquet,  prepares  the  mind  "for  the  return  action 
even  before  it  has  actually  set  in."*  In  dramas  according  to 
the  classical  model  the  opposition  may  be  in  force  from  the 
very  commencement,  or  before  the  commencement,  of  the  play, 
as  in  The  Tuo  Foscari.  In  Sardanapalus  it  fluctuates,  in  reverse 
direction,  with  the  fortunes  of  the  king.  In  Marino  Faliero 
it  is  represented,  during  the  tragic  "rise,"  when  the  forces  of 
opposition  are  unaware  of  the  conspirac}',  by  Bertram  who, 
though  one  of  the  plotters,  is  not  with  them  in  heart,  and 
through  whom  the  opposition  is  aroused. 

The  climax  is  the  culmination  of  the  rising  action.  Here 
occurs  that  event  of  utmost  significance,  through  which  the 
forces  of  opposition  win  the  ascendancy,  and  gaining  on  the 
protagonist,  gradually  drive  him  down  from  the  position  of 
vantage  which,  isolated  fi'om  the  norm,  he  has  been  able  to 
assume.  The  importance  of  the  climax  is  both  psychological 
and  spuitual  on  the  one  hand,  and  external  and  practical  on 
the  other.  Psychological,  because  there  is  a  change  or  deve- 
lopment in  the  attitude  of  the  hero;  spiritual,  because  he  has 
now  to  choose  finally  between  opposing  loyalties;  external 
and  practical,  because  the  forces  against  him  are  material  and 
will  affect  not  only  character  but  life  itself.  To  emphasize  the 
importance  of  this  scene,  dramatists  are  accustomed  to  give 
to  it  especial  interest;  it  is  brilliant  or  tremendous  in  situation 
and  in  poetry.  Freytag  (p.  129)  gives  as  examples  —  and  they 
cannot  be  bettered  —  the  banquet  scene  of  Macbeth  and  the 
storm-and-hovel  scene  of  Ring  Lear.  The  cHmax  must  justify 
its  technical  name.     What  of  Byron's? 

In  Manfred  it  is  well  marked.  After  lesser  exhibitions  of 
power  over  the  world  of  spirits,  by  conjuring  up  the  spirits 
of  the  universe,  and  the  Witch  of  the  Alps,  Manfred  penetrates 
to  the  abode  of  the  Evil  Principle  and  gains  converse  with 
the  dead.  This  is  the  utmost  of  his  power.  Thence  by  swift 
decline  he  goes  down  to  death.  He  has  sought  for  death; 
therefore   the   very   moment   of  the    climax   may   be  fixed   at 


*  E.  Woodbridge,  The  Drama,  Its  Law  and  Technique,  Boston,  Allyn 
and  Bacon,  [1898],  p.  82. 


54  Chapter  Three. 

Astarte's  words,  "To-morrow  ends  thine  eartlily  ills"  (II,  iv, 
151),  while  the  first  indications  of  the  "return  action"  he  in 
the  words 

"This  is  to  be  a  mortal. 
And  seek  the  things  beyond  mortahty"  (II,  iv,  157—8). 

The  entrance  of  the  Doge  into  the  house  in  which  the 
conspirators  are  met  together  marks  the  climax  of  Marino 
Faliero  (III,  ii,  90),  for  with  his  appearance  among  them  the 
fortunes  of  the  plot  reach  the  highest  point.  Already  in 
Galendaro's  suspicions  of  Bertram  (II,  ii,  67  f.),  there  have  been 
suggestions  of  the  "return  action,"  and  though  after  Faliero's 
consent  to  act  as  a  leader  of  the  conspiracy  the  outward  fortunes 
of  the  plot  continue  to  rise,  Bertram's  treachery  soon  marks 
it  for  failure.  Byron  has  therefore  well  indicated  the  highest 
point  of  the  rising  action.  He  has  erred,  however,  as  he  often 
does,  in  not  making  it  sharp  and  incisive  enough;  the  Doge 
"protests  too  much." 

Sardonapalns  is  better.  The  climax  is  a  scene  of  fine 
theatrical  possibilities  and  appeals  to  the  imagination  of  the 
reader.  The  stage  setting  of  the  thu'd  act  is  as  follows:  "The 
HaU  of  the  Palace  illuminated  —  Sardanapalus  and  his  Guests 
at  Table.  A  storm  without,  and  Thunder  occasionally  heard 
during  the  Banquet."  Interest  in  this  banquet  has  already 
been  excited  by  the  part  it  is  known  to  have  in  the  plans  of 
the  conspirators.  This  is  heightened  by  the  incongruity  of  the 
voluptuous  feast  on  this  night  fatal  to  the  Assyrian  empire. 
The  clash  between  individual  volition  and  the  general  good  is 
here  presented  in  concrete  form.  There  is  a  sense  of  "some 
consequence  yet  hanging  in  the  stars."  This  leads  to  expectancy, 
so  that  the  sudden  entrance  of  the  bloody  warrior  (line  68) 
affords  a  stirring  climax  to  the  scene  and  to  the  pla}'. 

Here,  as  in  almost  every  technical  point,  The  Two  Foscarl 
is  a  failure.  There  has  been  no  rising  action;  hence  there 
can  be  no  real  climax.  The  piece  has  moved  downwards 
towards  the  destruction  of  the  protagonist.  The  point  that 
serves  as  a  climax  is  the  announcement  of  the  decree  of  the 
Ten  that  Jacopo  Foscari  return  to  Gandia.  This  doom,  more 
dreadful  to  him  than  death  in  Venice,  is  the  immediate  cause 
of  his  death,   and  from  the  time  of  pronouncement  the  tragic 


Technique.  55 

decline  is  more  swift  than  during  the  first  portion  of  the  play. 
But  even  in  this  simple  matter  there  is  a  decided  flaw.  The 
climax,  such  as  it  is,  is  spoiled  by  anticipation.  Marina  brings 
the  news  of  the  decree  to  her  husband,  and  he  exclaims,  "Then 
my  last  hope's  gone"  (III,  i,  126).  When  a  few  minutes  later 
Loredano  brings  the  official  tidings  of  the  same  decree,  there 
is  nothing  left  for  the  doomed  man  to  say;  and  there  is  no 
thrill  of  emotion  left  in  the  breast  of  the  reader. 

The  action  of  Cai7i  is  so  simple  and  it  is  so  far  from 
regular  dramatic  form  that  a  definite  climax  is  hardly  possible. 
There  is  a  climax  in  the  thought  of  the  poem  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  second  act,  for  it  is  to  this  position  that  the  arguments 
of  Lucifer  have  been  tending,  and  it  is  from  his  defiant  assertion 
of  the  powers  and  privileges  of  the  human  mind  that  the  final 
expression  of  Gain's  revolt  comes.  Heaven  and  Earth  stops 
at  the  climax,  breaking  off  at  the  point  of  sharpest  clash  between 
the  will  of  God  and  the  defiance  of  the  rebels.  The  catastrophe 
would  have  had  its  beginning  at  the  point  where  the  piece  now 
concludes.  Werner  is  as  unsatisfactory  here  as  in  all  other 
respects.  It  is  difficult  to  pick  out  the  scene  intended  for  the 
climax,  as  all  are  on  the  same  dead  level  of  attainment,  but 
if  the  matter  must  be  decided  upon,  it  is  obvious  that  Werner's 
success  is  most  apparent  when  he  has  escaped  from  the  castle 
to  the  garden.  Then  Ulric  appears  with  his  feigned  suspicions 
that  Werner  has  been  the  murderer  of  Stralenheim.  This  is 
the  foundation  of  the  catastrophe.  It  is  impossible  to  find 
any  regular  climax  in  so  formless  a  fragment  as  The  Deformed 
Transformed. 

From  the  climax  to  the  catastrophe  the  descent  is  generally 
more  swift  than  the  rising  action  has  been,  though  this  varies 
in  individual  plays.  The  earlier  manifestations  of  the  forces 
of  opposition  have  already  been  apparent;  in  the  Byronic 
drama  they  have  been  present  from  the  beginning.  They  now 
gather  head.  Thus  the  third  act  of  Manfred  opens  in  an 
entirely  different  key  from  the  preceding,  and  affords  a  presage 
of  coming  calm.  In  Marino  Faliero  the  previously  apparent 
doubts  of  Bertram  are  openly  expressed  in  the  interview  with 
Lioni  (Act  IV,  Scene  i),  in  which  he  finally  reveals  the  plot. 
From   this  moment   one  is   sure  of  the   coming   failure   of  the 


56  Chapter  Three. 

conspiracy.  Sometimes  the  dramatist  "prepares  the  mind  of 
the  audience  for  the  catastrophe."'  This  is  the  Shakespearean 
method.  It  is  employed  by  Byron  in  Sardanapalus  where  the 
dream  in  Act  IV  foreshadows  the  monarch's  approaching  end. 
But  generally  the  catastrophe  of  Byron's  dramas  is  so  logicaUj'^ 
the  result  of  the  situation  that   no  such  warnings  are  needed. 

In  many  dramas  there  is  what  Freytag  (p.  136)  calls  "the 
final  suspense"  immediately  before  the  catastrophe,  a  point  at 
which  a  last  faint  gleam  of  hope  shines  in  the  gloom  rapidly 
enfolding  the  protagonist.  "A  slight  hindrance,  a  distant 
possibihty  of  a  happy  release,  is  thrown  in  the  way  of  the 
already  indicated  direction  of  the  end.  Brutus  must  explain 
that  he  considers  it  cowardly  to  kiU  one's  self;  the  dying 
Edmund  must  revoke  the  command  to  kUl  Lear;  FriEir  Laurence 
may  still  enter  the  monument  before  the  moment  when  Romeo 
kDls  himself."  Byron  employs  this  device  sparingl}'.  The 
ringing  of  the  beU  in  Marino  Faliero  affords  a  moment's  suspense, 
lest  it  suffice  to  arouse  the  conspirators.  But  it  quickly  stops 
and  with  its  cessation  all  hope  of  success  is  lost.  This  is  the 
real  catastrophe.  From  now  on  there  is  never  an  instant's 
doubt  as  to  the  outcome;  there  is  no  conflict,  for  the  forces 
of  opposition  have  triumphed.  Yet  Byron  prolongs  the  play 
through  another  act,  duU  and  actionless  and  utterly  undramatic. 
This  is  the  worst  flaw  in  Marino  Faliero,  and  in  this  respect 
none  of  the  other  plays  are  equally  bad.  Manfred  shows 
conflict  to  the  last  gasp  of  the  protagonist.  Sardanapalus  fights 
and  foils  his  enemies  even  in  death.  The  elder  Foscari  protests 
to  the  last  against  his  fate,  but  the  effect  of  the  end  is  marred 
by  the  certainty  of  its  nature  from  the  commencement  of  the 
play.  The  catastrophe  of  Cain  is  finely  conceived,  and  veiled 
in  mystery.  In  all  the  plays  the  force  of  individual  will  is 
shown  finally  succumbing  to  the  power  of  the  norm. 

This  review  of  Byron's  general  constructive  abilities  in  the 
drama  has  shown  how  faulty  his  technique  was.  In  part  this 
was  due  to  wUful  disregard  of  the  rules  of  the  drama,  in  part 
to  ignorance  and  inexperience.  His  lack  of  success  on  the 
formal  side  of  dramatic   art  is   well  illustrated  by  a  series  of 


1  B'reytag,  p.  135. 


Technique.  .  57 

diagrams  outlining  the  course  of  the  action  of  each  play.' 
The  obscure  motivation  of  Werner  makes  any  attempt  at 
schematic  representation  unsatisfactory;  and  Heaven  and  KortJi 
and  The  Deformed  Transformed  can  be  put  in  diagrammatic 
form  merely  as  upward-slanting  lines.  These  three  pieces  ai'e 
therefore  omitted. 

Climax 


A 


Marino  Faliero. 


A  is  the  actual  beginning  of  conflict,  long  before  the  play 
opens;  A — B  is  the  period  of  FaUero's  growing  resentment. 
B  is  the  insult  offered  him  by  Steno,  the  cause  of  Faliero's 
active  expression  of  opposition  to  the  ai'istocracy,  leading  up 
to  the  climax,  when  he  joins  the  conspiracy.  There  foUows 
the  betrayal  of  the  plot  and  the  "return  action,"  to  G,  the 
aiTest  of  Faliero  and  liis  fellows,  which  is  the  real  catastrophe. 
The  dechne  is  complete,  and  the  fifth  act  (G— D)  is  an  un- 
dramatic  aftermath. 

Climax 


A 

Sardan  apalus. 

A — B  is  the  period  of  discontent  before  the  opening  of  the 
play,  B  is  the  beginning  of  the  drama  and  precipitation  of 
the  conflict.  The  cHmax  follows  in  due  order,  whence  the 
action  decUnes  to  the  catastrophe,  G.  Sardanapalus  is  a  well 
constructed  play. 


I  have  borrowed  the  idea  of  these  diagrams  from  Woodbridge,  p.  77. 


58 


Chapter  Three. 
True  Climax 


.  B 


A- 


The  Two  Foscari. 


The  entire  period  A — B  is  without  the  limits  of  the  play.  It 
includes  the  beginning  of  the  conflict  between  the  younger 
Foscari  and  Venice;  his  first  banishment;  his  decision  to  return, 
the  true  cHmax  of  the  story;  his  arrest  and  trial.  B  is  the 
opening  of  the  play,  after  the  trial,  whence  it  proceeds  to  the 
catastrophe  at  G.  The  diagram  shows  the  dramatic  possibilities 
of  the  theme;  it  also  shows  Byron's  failure  to  avail  himself  of 
these  possibilities. 

.C 


Manfred. 

Manfred,  though  but  pseudo- dramatic,  represents  well  the 
double  nature  of  tragic  action  —  spiritual  triumph  concomitant 
with  material  failure.  A — B  is  the  period  of  increasing  power 
over  the  world  of  spirits,  reaching  its  climax  at  Manfred's 
penetration  into  the  Hall  of  Arimanes.  Thereafter  the  decline 
to  death  is  swift  (B— D),  yet  there  is  a  continued  spiritual  rise 
(B — C),  culminating  in  his  triumph  over  the  evil  spirits  who 
haunt  his  death-bed. 

In  a  moment  of  discouragement  Byron  wrote  (LJ.  V,  218), 
"Many  people  think  my  talent  'essentially  undramatic,'  and  I 
am  not  at  aU  clear  that  they  are  not  right."    To  a  great  extent 


Manfred.  59 

they  ivere  right;  ilie  merits  of  his  dramas  are  not  those  which 
belong  exclusively  or  even  chiefly  to  dramatic  litei-ature.  Had 
the  same  amount  of  care  and  energy  been  expended  in  work 
native  to  his  genius  —  imagine  ten  more  cantos  of  Don  Juan! 
—  the  world  had  been  the  gainer.  But  Byron  chose  otherwise; 
and  there  is  much  of  worth  and  wisdom  in  the  result  of  his 
choice,  worth  and  wisdom  preserved  to  us  though  they  are 
through  a  medium  foreign  to  his  genius  and  faulty  in  technique. 


Chapter  Four. 

Manfred. 

The  letters  fi-om  Switzerland  contain  no  allusion  to  the 
composition  of  Manfred.  The  note  attached  to  The  Incanta/ion, 
published  with  The  Prisoner  of  Chillon  and  other  Poems,  De- 
cember 5,  1816,  is  the  eaiiiest  reference  to  it.  This  note  reads: 
"The  following  Poem  was  a  Chorus  in  an  unfinished  Witch 
Drama,  which  was  begun  some  years  ago."  I  think  this  is 
sheer  mystification.  I  am  not  sure  that  The  Incantation  was 
originally  part  of  any  drama  at  all;  certainly  it  fits  but 
imperfectly  into  the  context  in  Manfred.^  Byron  later  wrote 
(LJ.  IV,  54)  that  Manfred  was  begun  in  Switzerland.  The 
composition  of  the  first  and  second  acts  may  be  referred  to 
the  latter  half  of  September,  during  the  tour  of  the  Bernese 
Alps,  or  just  afterwards  during  the  last  sojourn  at  Diodati, 
before  the  departure  for  Italy  on  October  6,  1816.  The  bare 
conception  of  the  poem  may  be  of  earlier  date  (see  P.  IV,  81), 


*  See  further  H.  Varnhagen,  De  Rebus  quibusdam  Compositionem 
Byronis  Dramatis  quod  Manfred  inscribitur,  Erlangen  1909,  a  monograph 
of  value  for  the  elaborate  detail  of  the  ''Vorgeschichte"  of  Manfred.  Professor 
Varnhagen  finds  that  one  part  of  the  Incantation  is  closely  identified  in 
theme  and  phrase  with  the  rest  of  Manfred,  while  the  other  part  (stanzas 
5,  6,  and  two  lines  of  7),  metrically  distinct  from  its  context,  is  evidently 
directed  against  Lady  Byron.  He  conies  to  no  very  satisfactory  conclusion 
as  to  the  meaning  of  the  note  originally  put  under  the  title  of  The  Incantation 
It  is  convenient  to  add  here  that  in  his  article  "Zur  Textkritik  von  Byrons 
Manfred''  (Byroniana  und  Anderes,  Erlangen,  1912),  Varnhagen  fails  to 
note  Coleridge's  bad  misprint  of  "the"  for  '"thy"  in  I,  i,  242. 


60  Chapter  Four. 

but  Byron  himself  records  the  influence  of  the  Staulibach  and 
the  Jungfrau  (LJ.  IV,  174-),  and  numerous  parallels  to  the 
Journal-Letter  kept  during  the  September  tour  (LJ.  Ill,  349  f.) 
date  it  quite  definitely.  The  third  act  was  composed  in  Italy. 
In  the  abortive  first  version  the  inspiration  of  the  earher  acts 
is  markedly  lacking  and  there  is  evidence  of  a  totally  different 
environment.  The  second  version  of  Act  III  was  written 
between  April  26  and  May  5,  1817  (LJ.  IV,  115).  Manfred  was 
published  on  June  16,  1817. 

The  sources  of  Manfred,  if  we  include  whatever  gave  more 
or  less  definite  suggestions,  are  numerous.  The  name  of  the 
protagonist  Byron  probably  got  from  the  Manfred  of  Walpole's 
Castle  of  OtrantOy  though  there  are  other  possibilities  such  as 
Monti's  tragedy  Galeotto  Manfredi  and  the  Manfi-ed  of  Furgatorio 

m,  112  f. 

Byron  was  always  so  careful  by  the  acknowledgment  of 
obligations  to  avoid  even  the  appearance  of  dishonest  plagiarism 
that  it  is  important  to  note  that  he  refused  to  ascribe  the 
direct  inspiration  of  Manfred  to  any  previous  book.  "As  to 
the  germs  of  Manfred/'  he  wrote  (LJ.  IV,  174),  "they  may  be 
found  in  the  journal  which  I  sent  to  Mrs  Leigh  .  .  .  when 
I  went  over  first  the  Dent  de  Jamont  (sic)  .  .  .  and  made 
the  giro  of  the  Jungfrau,  Shreckhorn,  etc.,  etc.,  shortly  before 
I  left  Switzerland."  And  again  (LJ.  V,  37),  "It  was  the  Staubach 
(sic)  and  the  Jungfrau,  and  something  else,  much  more  than 
Faustus\  that  made  me  write  Manfred."  The  mention  of  the 
mountain  and  the  waterfall  refers  to  the  influence  of  nature 
upon  the  poet's  inspiration,  an  influence  at  its  height  during 
the  Swiss  period;  the  "something  else"  is  that  autobiographical 
background  about  which  speculation  has  long  been  rife.  To 
both  these  subjects  I  shall  return. 

The  most  direct  source  of  Manfred,  apart  from  Faust,  is 
Chateaubriand's  RenS.^  Of  this  Chateaubriand  seems  to  have 
been  aware,  for  he  says  "II  est  vrai  que  Rene  entrat  pour 
quelque  chose  dans  le  fond  du  personnage  unique  mis  en  scene 


,  ^  For   Byron's    borrowings    from    Goethe's    Faust    in    Manfred    see 
Appendix  II. 

*  I  follow   Koeppel's   admirable   study,    "Lord  Byrons  Astarte,"   E)ig. 
Stud.  XXX,  195  f. 


Manfred.  Ql 

sur  des  noms  diver  (sic)  dans  Childe  Harold,  Conrad,  Lara, 
Manfred,"  etc'  Were  the  similarity  only  general  theii- 
connection  might  be  ascribed  to  the  influence  of  the  maladie 
du  Steele  upon  both  of  them  and  to  their  common  descent  from 
that  source-book  of  suicidal  melancholj'  Die  Leiden  des  jungen 
Werthers,  but  in  man}'  respects  the  themes  of  the  two  works 
are  identical.  Rene  and  Manfred  have  alike  had  an  onl}^  love, 
and  that  love  unlawful  in  the  highest  degree.  Each  has  been 
bound  to  his  sister  by  conformity  of  soul,  so  that  the  two  have 
grown  up  together  apart  from  other  men.  Each  is  over- 
thoughtful,  and  each,  through  the  grief  of  separation  and  the 
pangs  of  remorse,  has  become  misanthropical.  Set  over  against 
the  character  of  Rene  are  the  Indian  Ghactas  and  the  missionary 
Pere  Souel;  there  is  something  analogous  to  them  in  the 
Chamois -hunter  and  the  Abbot  in  Manfred.  For  the  wildness 
of  the  primitive  forests  where  "le  Meschacebe  roulait  ses  ondes 
dans  un  sUence  magnifique"  there  is  substituted  the  wildness 
of  the  Alpine  crags.  There  are,  of  course,  in  Manfred  notable 
divergences  fi-om  Rene.  In  place  of  the  tone  of  Christian 
submission,  typical  of  the  Catholic  reaction  in  France,  there 
is  the  Byronic  "courage  never  to  submit  or  yield."  There  is 
no  introduction  of  the  supernatural  into  Chateaubriand's  stor}^ 
In  the  character  of  Rene  there  is  no  trace  of  the  titanic  element. 
Esteve^  summarizes  these  resemblances  and  divergencies.  "II 
y  a  de  singulieres  analogies  de  caractere  et  de  situation.  Lui 
aussi  [Manfred],  ses  passions,  son  genie  et  ses  malheurs  I'ont 
mis  en  dehors  et  au-dessus  de  I'humanite.  Mais  il  la  domine 
de  phis  haut  encore,  car  son  sort  est  plus  affreux;  il  traine 
apres  lui  le  remords  du  crime  dont  le  frere  d'Amelie  a  ose  a 
peine  imaginer  I'horreur.  Et  tandis  que  Fame  ardente  et  faible 
de  Rene  pHe  sous  le  fardeau,  Manfred,  raidi  contre  le  destin, 
persiste  jusqu'au  bout  dans  son  attitude  arrogante."  That 
Byron  had  read  Rene  admits  of  no  doubt;  but  in  the  compo- 
sition of  Manfred  it  exerted,  I  think,  only  a  sub -conscious 
influence.  Both  works  are  filled  with  that  "malaise  inexprimable" 
which  Alfred  de  Musset  describes  in  the  second  chapter  of  the 


'  Ess  fit  sur  la  Litter  ature  anglaise,  Paiis,  Furne-Jouvet,  1867,  p.  314. 
-  Edinoiid  Est^ve,  Byron  et  le  Romantism  francais,  Paris,  Hachette, 
1907,  p.  30. 


62  Chapter  Four. 

Confessions  d^un  Enfant  du  Siecle.  "Beide,"  saj'S  Lohmarm/ 
"sind  personifikationen  des  zeitgeistes,  und  der  krankt  an  dem 
weltschmerz,  welcher  alle  literaturen  Europa's  durchzog." 

In  one  important  particular,  however,  the  indebtedness  to 
Rene  seems  to  be  more  than  sub-conscious,  and  that  is  the 
mcest-motiv,  an  element  of  much  prominence  in  Manfred. 
AmeUe  is,  as  the  Germans  say,  the  Ur-Astarte,  an  Astarte 
more  restrained  and  finally  enskied  and  sainted.  Chateaubriand 
was  the  immediate  forerunner  of  B3'ron,  but  the  theme  has 
been  one  of  wide  occurrence  in  ancient  and  modern  literatures.^ 
This  fact  is  ignored  by  those  who  see  only  biographical  signi- 
ficance in  Byron's  employment  of  it.  To  sa}^  nothing  of 
Euripides,  Galderon,  Lope  de  Vega,  Racine,  Scliiller,  and  Alfieri, 
there  are  several  dramas  on  the -subject  in  English.  It  is  the 
theme  of  Ford's  most  famous  play.  In  all  essentials,  so  far  as 
the  ethical  and  psychological  problems  are  concerned,  it  occurs 
again  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  King  and  No  King.  Dryden's 
Don  Sebastian  treats  of  the  same  sin,  though  here  the  lovers 
are  ignorant  of  their  relationshij).  Walpole's  Mysterious  Mother 
develops  the  subject  to  the  wildest  extreme  of  a  morbid  ima- 
gination. As  a  literary  motiv  it  was  curiously  current  during 
the  period  of  fuU  romanticism,  and  hke  the  suicidal  mania  that 
found  expression  in  Werther  and  of  which  there  is  an  after-echo 
in  "The  Sorrows  of  Teufelsdrockh,"  it  is  one  of  the  pathological 
extremes  of  the  reaction  from  classical  and  rationalistic  restraint. 
Thus  Mignon,  in  Goethe's  Wilhelm  Meisters  Lehrjahre  (bk.  viii, 
chap.  9),  is  the  daughter  of  the  old  wandering  musician  and 
his  sister,  with  whom,  not  knowing  who  she  was,  he  had 
fallen  in  love.  The  theme  laid  special  hold  upon  the  imagi- 
nations of  SheUey  and  Byron.  Of  the  interest  which  Shelley 
took  in  it  Laon  and  Cythna  (the  original  form  of  The  Revolt 
of  Islam)  and  The  Cenci  are  the  main  evidences.  See  also  his 
comments  upon  Galderon's  Cabellos  de  Ahsolom^  and  compare 
Rosalind  and  Helen,  11.  146  f.  Byron's  original  plan  of  The 
Bride  oj  Ahydos  was  to   make  the  lovers   brother   and   sister, 

^  0.  Lohmann,  "Byrons  Manfred  und  sein  Verhaltnis  zu  Dichtungen 
Verwandten  Inhalts",  Anqlia  V,  307. 

*  See  Otto  Rank,  Das  Tnzest-Motiv  in  Dichtung  und  Saga,  Leipzig, 
Franz  Deuticke,  1912. 

»  Letters  U,  749. 


Manfred.  63 

and  as  published  it  resorts  to  the  compromise  seen  in  A  King 
and  No  King:  the  lovers  believe  themselves  to  be,  but  aie 
not,  so  related.  There  is  a  suggestion  of  such  a  love  in  the 
plan  of  Byron's  unfinished  "tale  of  terror,"  The  Vampire.^ 
Parisina  is  in  the  same  class  of  subject  matter.  As  late  as 
the  date  of  Cain  Byron's  mind  seems  still  to  have  concerned 
itself  with  this  obliquity  of  passion. 

Heinrich  Gillardon'  has  advanced  with  much  confidence 
another  theor}'  as  to  the  source  of  Manfred,  between  which  and 
Shelley's  juvenile  romance  St.  Irmjne  or  the  Rosicruciaii^  "finden 
sich  nun  so  viele  und  so  auffallige  Ubereinstimmungen,  dass  sie 
mir  diesen  Roman  als  die  oft  vermutete  und  oft  gesuchte  Quelle 
Manfreds  erscheinen  lassen."  This  assertion  is  supported  b}^ 
a  large  number  of  parallels,  in  thought  or  situation,  and  occa- 
sionally in  words.  He  combines  the  characteristics  of  the  proud, 
lonely,  sinful  Wolfstein  and  of  the  awful  Ginotti  —  the  man 
who  has  dived  into  the  mysteries  of  hfe  and  death  —  and  in 
this  combination  he  arrives  at  what  he  considers  the  Ur-Manfred 
(p.  112).  A  difficulty  is  that  these  elements  of  character  —  sin, 
mysterj^  passion,  power  —  are  traits  of  the  "Gothic"  type  of 
hero  in  general  (compare,  for  instance,  Lewis's  Ambrosio  or 
Maturin's  Bertram  or  the  Radcliffeian  hero),  and  of  the  Byronic 
hero-type  in  particular.  Moreover  the  one  feature  that  strikingly 
recalls  Ginotti,  namely,  Manfred's  explorations  of  hidden 
mysteries,  is  the  one  that  most  probably  derives  from  Fatist^ 
More  fantastic  is  the  complicated  combination  through  which 
Gillardon  obtains  his  Ur-Astarte.  Here  he  is  utterly  unconvincing, 
since  nowhere  in  St.  Irvyne  is  there  a  hint  of  that  which  hes 
at  the  heart  of  the  mystery  of  Astarte  —  the  incestuous  nature 
of  Manfred's  love  for  her.  Such  a  liint  Gillardon  (p..  110) 
attempts  t  d|extract  by  a  non-natural  interpretation  of  one 
passage    (p.   237),    of   which    Koeppel    justly    remarks^,    "Die 


1  See  Polidori's  outline,  LJ.  IV,  287,  note.  See  also  P.  VII, 
55,  11.  7f. 

'  Shelleys  Einwirkung  auf  Byron,  Karlsruhe,  1898,  p.  89  f. 

^  The  Works  of  P.  B.  Shelley,  ed.  H.  B.  Forman,  London,  Reeves  and 
Turner,  1880,  V,  161  f. 

*  Cf.,  however.  Shelley's  Alastor,  11.  18  f.,  quoted  below  p.  80. 

^  Eng.  Stud.  XXX,  195. 


64  Chapter  Four. 

weitere  entwicklung  der  erzalilung  widersprichi   einer  solchen 
annahme  durchaus."  ^ 

Byron  had  assimilated  a  large  amount  of  the  material 
common  to  all  extreme  romanticism.  This  is  shown  not  only 
by  the  more  or  less  definite  indebtedness  to  Rene  and  St.  Irvyne, 
but  by  the  number  of  individual  suggestions  which  he  got 
from  various  and  scattered  sources. 

Walpole  furnished  more  than  a  name.  His  romance  is  the 
source,  direct  or  indirect,  of  the  taste  for  Gothic  gloom  and 
horror  and  for  the  revival  of  the  emplo3ment  of  the  super- 
natural. Manfred  is  in  the  line  of  descent  from  The  Castle  of 
Otranto.  More  direct  is  its  descent  from  Walpole's  other  essay 
in  Gothicism.  The  Mysterious  Mother,  a  play  singled  out  for 
Byron's  special  praise,  might  well  exert  some  influence,  and 
apparently  it  does.  Like  Manfred  it  deals  with  an  incestuous 
passion,  though  of  an  even  more  horrible  kind.  After  the 
commission  of  the  crime  there  foUows  in  each  play  an  ever- 
present  remorse.  The  emphasis  is  laid  upon  the  punishment 
afforded  by  conscience  in  this  life  rather  than  punishment  in 
any  hell  hereafter.     Such  lines  as   — 

"Memory 

Is  full.     A  head,  distract  as  mine,  can  hold 

Two  only  objects,  guilt  and  eternity," 
or  —  "Must  I  learn 

That  minutes  stamped  with  crime  are  past  recall? 

That  joys  are  momentary ;  and  remorse 

Eternal?" 


^  A  single   example   of  the   strain  to   which  Gillardon's   theory   is  put 
may  be  given.     He  quotes  from  Manfred: 

"Manf.:  I  loved  her,  and  destroy'd  her! 

Witch:  With  thy  hand? 

Manf.:  Not  with  my  hand,  but  heart,  which  broke  her  heart; 

It  gazed  on  mine,  and  withered.     I  have  shed 

Blood,  but  not  hers  —  and  yet  her  blood  was  shed ; 

I  saw — and  could  not  stanch  it"  (11,  ii,  116  f.) 
This  passage  Gillardon  derives  from  the  scene  in  the  bed-chamber  of  Olympia 
in  St.  Irvyne  (p.  228).  Wolfstein,  the  paramour  of  Megalena,  having  rejected 
the  advances  of  Olympia,  is  forced  by  his  jealous  mistress  to  murder  her 
would-be  rival ;  but,  having  reached  her  bed-side,  he  is  unnerved  by  the  sight 
of  her,  peacefully  asleep,  and  he  throws  away  his  dagger.  She  wakes  and 
misinterprets  the  meaning  of  his  presence;  a  few  words  pass;  again  he  rejects 


Manfred.  (55 

might  be  from  Manfred's  lips.  The  protagonist,  though  in  this 
case  a  woman,  spurns  the  comfort  offered  by  priests.  Dogma 
and  superstition  are  ahke  denounced,  and  the  priests  are 
represented  as  being  crafty,  worldly,  and  hypocritical.  This 
last  element,  though  Byronic,  hardly  enters  into  Manfred. 
I  am  inclined  to  think  that  B3'ron  drew  hints  from  tliis  play, 
3'et  the  resemblances  may  well  be  from  common  use  of  the 
materials  of  Romanticism. 

The  same  is  true  of  other  plays  which  Byron  had  read. 
There  are  what  seem  to  me  echoes  of  Coleridge's  Remorse,  * 
and  less  probably  of  Maturin's  Bertram,^  but  in  neither  case 
are  they  sufficient!}-  close  to  be  considered  as  sources  of  Manfred. 
The}'  serve  to  show  how  closely  associated  are  the  individual 
products  of  the  time,  and  to  what  an  extent  Byron's  mind 
was  imbued  with  romanticism. 

There  are  some  minor  sources  from  which  Byron  certainly 
derived  parts  of  his  material.  Eimer'  declares,  *'Von  Mont- 
gomer}'s  Gedicht  The  Wanderer  in  Sivitzerland  wurde  Byron 
im  Manfred  mehrfach  deutlich  beeinflusst."  This  poem*  is,  to 
borrow  Wordsworth's  phrase,  "thoughts  of  a  Briton  on  the 
subjugation  of  Switzerland,"  Byron  knew  Montgomery's  work, 
addressed  some  verses  to  him  (P.  I,  107),  and  declared  "his 
Wanderer  in  Switzerland  is  worth  a  thousand  Lyrical  Ballads y'' 
There  is,  however,  nothing  in  common  between  it  and  Manfred, 
except  the  descriptions  of  mountain  scenery,  and  its  influence 
must  have  been  small  indeed. 

From  Beckford's  Vathek,  the  oriental  romance  which  so  power- 
fully affected  Byron's  imagination,  and  of  which  the  influence 

her  advances ;  in  sudden  despair  she  snatches  his  discarded  weapon  from  the 
floor  and  plunges  it  in  her  breast.  Gillardon's  comment  (p.  108)  is,  "Wolfstein 
hat  sie  also  nicht  mit  seiner  Hand,  sondern  mit  seinem  Herzen  getodtet,  das 
ihr  Eerz  brach.  Er  vergoss  nicht  ihr  Blut  und  doch  ward  ihr  Blut  vergossen. 
Er  sah's  und  konnt's  nicht  stillen."  Here  we  have  Quellenstudien  forced 
to  a  morbid  extreme. 

^  Compare  Remorse  III,  i,  83  —  Manfred  II,  iv,  114;  IV.  i,  111  — 
Manfred  ixissim;  V,  i,  60  —  Manfred's  last  words. 

*  Act  II,  Scene  iii  is  especially  Byronic  and  Manfredia.n. 

*  M.  Eimer,  Byron  und  der  Kostnos,  Anglestische  Forschungen,  Heft  34, 
Heidelberg,  Carl  Winter,  1912,  p.  28. 

*  Poetical  Worka  of  James  Montgom,ery,  1841,  I,  1 — 51. 
5  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers,  line  425,  note. 

Hesperia,  B.  3.  5 


66  Chapter  Four. 

is  especially  discernible  in  The  Giaour  and  The  Siege  of  Corinth, 
Byron  obtained  the  "setting"  of  the  Hall  of  Arimanes.  His 
throne,  "a  globe  of  fire,"  is  a  replica,  so  to  speak,  of  that  on 
which  "the  formidable  Eblis"  sat/ 

Lewis's  Monk  may  have  given  suggestions  for  the  last 
scene.  In  the  last  chapter,^  Ambrosio,  about  to  die  for  his 
many  crimes,  summons  Lucifer  to  rescue  him.  The  "pact" 
idea  is  here  introduced.  The  monk  at  first  refuses  to  sell  his 
soul  to  perdition,  but  the  extremity  of  terror  overcomes  his 
resolution  and  he  gives  himself  over  to  the  fiend,  who  carries 
him  far  up  on  the  heights  of  the  Sierra  Morena,  from  whence 
he  is  dashed  down  to  death  upon  the  rocks.  In  the  first 
element  of  this  catastrophe  there  is  a  general  resemblance  to 
the  final  scene  of  Manfred.  The  original  grotesque  punishment 
meeted  out  to  the  Abbot  (in  the  suppressed  first  version  of 
act  III,  P.  IV,  122),  is  a  much  closer  echo  of  The  Monk. 

There  is  something  SheUeyan  in  the  conference  with  the 
Witch  of  the  Alps,  the  personification  of  the  spirit  of  Nature, 
to  look  upon  whose  beauty  has  become  Manfi'ed's  one  desire. 
Professor  Brandl  goes  so  far  as  to  indicate  Queen  Mab  and 
Alastor  as  sources  of  the  second  act.  Manfred's  visit  to  the 
Hall  of  Arimanes  vaguely  resembles  Macbeth's  last  interview 
with  the  Weird  Sisters. 

Byron,  more  than  most  poets,  works  again  and  again 
along  the  same  grooves  of  thought.  This  is  well  illustrated 
by  the  recurrence  of  the  Byronic  hero-type.  This  question 
has  received  special  study  by  Kraeger,  and  is  of  importance 
here  only  so  far  as  these  typical  elements  enter  into  the  character 
of  Manfred.  Manfred  is  a  solitary,  partly  b}-  inclination,  partl}^ 
by  consciousness  of  superiority  to  his  fellow-men  ("the  sense 
that  he  was  greater  than  his  kind"),  paiily  b}^  the  weight  of 
crimes  and  grief.  He  is  a  man  of  mystery  and  crime,  and 
linked  with  these  crimes  he  has,  like  Conrad  before  him,  the 


'  Soipe  critics  have  traced  the  epithet  "Child  of  Clay"  (I,  i,  131)  to  the 
words  of  Eblis,  "Creatures  of  clay,  I  receive  you  into  mine  empire."  References 
to  "clay"  and  "dust"  are,  however,  typically  Byronic,  and  the  phrase  "creatures 
of  clay"  occurs  several  times  in  his  poetry. 

«  Ed.  B.  A.  Baker,  London,  Routledge,  1907,  p.  ?48f.  The  incest  moHv 
enters  slightly  into  this  story  (see  p.  354). 


Manfred.  67 

questionable  virtue  of  devotion  to  one  only  love.  This  single- 
miiided  devotion  and  subsequent  loss  Manfred  characterizes  as 
"the  core  of  my  heart's  grief"  (II,  ii,  99).  More  than  almost 
anything  else  this  idea  is  of  the  very  foundation  of  Byronism. 
Manfred  is  Ghilde  Harold,  who  "had  sigh'd  to  many  though 
he  loved  but  one"  (I,  v);  with  the  Giaour  he  has  learnt  "to 
die  ~  but  know  no  second  love"  (1.  1166);  like  SeUm,  in  The 
Bride  of  Abydos,  he  has  experienced  "unnumbered  perils  —  but 
one  OTAy  love"  (II,  899);  like  Conrad,  in  Tlte  Corsair,  there 
was  in  his  heaii 

"love  —  unchangeable,  unchanged, 
Felt  but  for  one  from  whom  he  never  ranged"  (I,  287-8). 
But  in  the  Eastern  tales  this  One  Love  had  been  itself  the  object 
of  poetic  expression;  in  Manfred  Astarte  is  more  than  the 
heroine  of  a  tragic  love  tale;  she  is  the  formal  embodiment, 
the  concrete  presentation,  of  the  abstract  mood.  Of  this  I  shall 
say  more.  Byron  has  thus  appHed  a  deeper  meaning  to  the 
theme.  In  like  manner  he  has  motived  the  melancholy  of 
the  earher  poems.  He  lets  mystery  still  hang  over  the  crime, 
but  explains  the  grief  as  the  inevitable  accompaniment  of 
knowledge.  Manfred  is  thus  the  consummation  of  the  B3Tonic 
hero-type.  A  philosophical  meaning,  a  depth  of  thought,  is 
given  to  the  melancholy  which  in  the  poems  of  his  youth  had 
been  merely  fashionable.  The  desenchanU,  the  victim  of  ennui 
and  unrest,  laden  with  crimes,  consumed  with  vain  aspirations 
and  sterile  regi'ets,  had  past  through  many  poems;  he  is  now 
made  the  medium  of  authentic  utterance. 

In  two  poems,  however,  the  similarities  to  Manfred  are  of 
a  more  intimate  nature  than  can  be  dealt  with  in  generalizations. 
These  are  The  Giaour  and  The  Dream. 

The  Giaour  is  the  story  of  an  illicit  love  through  which 
the  woman  comes  to  her  death,  wliile  the  lover,  after  living 
a  prey  to  remorse  and  yearning  for  death,  dies  in  a  monastery. 
Manfred  declares,  "I  loved  her  and  destroy'd  her"  (II,  ii,  116), 
and  the  Giaour  says  that  his  love  died  for  him  (1.  1034).  The 
protagonists  of  both  poems  have  loved  not  wdthout  success. 
"My  embrace  was  fatal",  says  Manfred  (II,  i,  87)  and  the  Giaour, 
"I  did  not  vainly  seek,  nor  sigh"  (1.  1053).  In  both  cases  the 
mysterious    death   of   the  Beloved    drives   them  to    passionate 


68  Chapter  Four. 

remorse,  and  it  is  in  The  Giaour  that,  under  the  simile  of  tlie 
self-stung  scorpion,'  Byron  has  best  described  this  passion: 

"So  writhes  the  mind  Remorse  hath  riven, 
Unfit  for  earth,  undoom'd  for  heaven, 
Darkness  above,  despair  beneath, 
Around  it  flame,  within  it  death"  (1.  435  f.) 

Compare  Manfred's  words: 

"The  innate  tortures  of  that  deep  Despair 

Which  is  Remorse  without  the  fear  of  Hell"  (ITI,  i,  70  f.) 

Shortly  before  his  death  the  Giaour  fancies  that  he  sees  the 
form  of  his  beloved  Leila,  who  "beckons  with  beseeching  hands" 
(1.  1299),  just  as  at  the  behest  of  Nemesis  the  phantom  of 
Astarte  (cf.  "the  morning  star  of  memory")  appears  before 
Manfi^ed  with  the  prophecy  that  "to-morrow  ends  thine  earthly 
ills"  (II,  iv,  151).  The  Giaour  and  Manfred  are  alike  offered 
the  consolations  of  religion,  and  the  monk  of  the  earlier  poem 


*  "So  do  the  dark  in  soul  expire, 

Or  live  like  scorpion  girt  with  fire"  (11.  433-4) 

To  these  lines  Byron  added  a  note,  "Alluding  to  the  dubious  suicide  of  the 
scorpion."  Byron  told  Dallas  that  the  simile  of  the  scorpion  was  imagined 
in  his  sleep  {Recollections,  p.  264,  cited  by  E.  H.  Coleridge,  P.  Ill,  107, 
note  1).  The  lines  are  the  first  of  a  series  of  such  similes,  employed  by 
several  poets  within  a  few  years  of  the  appearance  of  The  Giaour.  These 
are  given  for  the  benefit  of  comparison. 

"The  truths  of  their  pure  lips,  that  never  die, 
Shall  bind  the  scorpion  falsehood  with  a  wreath 

Of  living  flame, 
Until  the  monster  sting  itself  to  death." 

(Shelley,  Queen  Mah  VI.  35  f.  and  cf .  IX,  43  f.) 
"And  we  are  left,  as  scorpions  ringed  with  fire, 
What  should  we  do  but  strike  ourselves  to  death." 
(Shelley,  The  Cenci  II,  ii,  70-1). 
"Mark  how  the  scorpion,  falsehood. 
Coils  round  its  own  perplexity,  and  fixes 
Its  sting  in  its  own  head."    (Coleridge,  T^apoltja  I,  1,348  f.) 
"Thus  to  be,  like  the  scorpion,  ring  'd  with  fire, 
Till  I  sting  mine  own  heart."    (Croly,  Catiline  Act  II,  Sc.  ii). 
The    lines   in  Queen  Mab   derive   from  Godwin's  Folitical  Justice   (I,  89): 
"Error    contains   in  it   the   principle  of  its   own  mortality".     Compare   also 
Alfred  de  Vigny's  description  of  the  same  phenomenon  in  the  "Dernier  Nuit 
de  Travail,"   prefixed  to  CJiatterton  {CEuvrcs  completes,   Paris,  Delagrave, 
Thedtre  I,  18j  and  see  Beddoes,  Letters,  p.  114. 


Manfred.  69 

foreshadows  the  Abbot  in  the  later.  In  both  poems  these 
ministrations  are  rejected.     The  Giaour  exclaims: 

"Waste  not  thine  orison,  despair 

Is  mightier  than  thy  pious  prayer: 

I  would  not,  if  I  might,  be  blest; 

I  want  no  Paradise  but  rest"  (1.  1267  f.) 

This  is  in  exact  accord  with  the  prevalent  mood  of  Manfred. 
To  the  character  of  the  Giaour  there  were  added  for  the  making 
of  Manfred  the  pantheistic  view  of  Nature,  which  developed, 
though  already  latent  in  Byron's  mind,  under  the  influence  of 
the  Alps  and  the  companionship  of  Shelley;  the  sense  of  the 
vanity  of  human  knowledge,  which  Byron  got  from  Goethe; 
and  the  foundation  of  personal  experience. 

Closer  yet  is  the  resemblance  of  The  Dream  to  Manfred. 
This  poem,  the  most  famous  of  all  Byron's  shorter  pieces,  was 
composed  in  July,  1816,  probably  towards  the  end  of  the  month, 
and  therefore  not  long  before  the  commencement  of  the  com- 
position of  Manfred.  The  two  poems  are  therefore  nearly 
coincident  in  time  and  place  of  composition,  and  were  the 
products  of  much  the  same  mood  and  environment.  That  there 
should  be  resemblances  of  theme  is  but  natural,  but  below  the 
surface  similarity  there  lies  a  significance  that  has  not  been 
appreciated  and  that  even  IVIr.  Edgcumbe  in  his  discussion  of 
The  Dream  *  fails  to  note.  The  Dream  and  Manfred  are  both, 
from  one  point  of  view,  the  expression  of  remorse.  The  earlier 
poem  is  the  story  of  a  man's  devotion  to  a  woman  who  did  not 
return  his  love  when  first,  as  a  boy,  he  wooed  her.  Years  passed 
by  and  there  came  the  day  of  parting.  The  young  lover  became 
a  wanderer  and  the  Lady  of  the  di'eam  was  married  to  another. 
After  this  a  mjsterious  grief  came  over  her,  she  "changed  as 
by  the  sickness  of  the  soul",  and  ended  in  madness.  The 
Wanderer  had  meanwhile  married  another  woman,  whose 
"face  was  fair,  but  was  not  that  which  made 
The  starlight  of  his  boyhood"  (U.  147-8.) 

That  face  haunted  him  perpetually,  and  when  next  he  appears 
it  is  in  lonehness  and  despau".  He  seems  even  to  have  sought 
for  death, but 


1  Richard  Edgcumbe,   Byron:  the  Last  Phase,   London,   Murray,    1910, 
p.  289f. 


70  Chapter  Four. 

"lived 
Through  that  which  had  been  death  to  many  men, 
And  made  him  friends  of  mountains:  with  the  stars 
And  the  quick  spirit  of  the  Universe 
He  held  his  dialogues;  and  they  did  teach 
To  him  the  magic  of  then'  mysteries; 
To  him  the  book  of  night  was  open'd  wide, 
And  voices  from  the  deep  abyss  reveal'd 
A  marvel  and  a  secret"  (11.  193  f.) 

The  course  of  Manfred's  life  is  just  the  same.  He  had  loved 
Astarte  from  his  youth  up,  and  had  lost  her.  As  in  the  case 
of  the  Lady  there  is  a  mystery  surrounding  her  fate,  but  in 
Manfred  the  cause  of  her  destruction  is  known.  Manfi-ed  says, 
"My  embrace  was  fatal."  But  is  Astarte  dead?  The  question 
sounds  strange;  but  there  are  signs  that  in  the  biographical 
aUegory  which  Byron  has  assuredly  inserted  into  the  play  the 
idea  of  actual  physical  death  was  not  meant  to  be  conveyed. 
Manfred,  in  spite  of  declaring  Astarte  innocent,  and  in  spite 
of  Nemesis'  assurance  that  she  "belongs  to  the  other  powers," 
speaks  of  "heaven,  ivhere  thou  art  not"  (II,  i,  30) \  Again  he  says: 
"What  is  she  now?  —  a  sufferer  for  my  sins  — 
A  thing  I  dare  not  think  upon  —  or  nothing"  (II,  ii,  196  f.). 

When  Nemesis  asks  him,  "Whom  wouldst  thou  uncharnel?" 
he  rephes,  "One  without  a  tomb"  (II,  iv,  81).  These  phrases, 
and  especially  the  last  one,  mean  nothing  unless  we  interpret 
them  to  mean  that  Astarte  is  "dead  to  him",  just  as  the  Lad}^ 
married  to  another  and  then  insane,  is  dead  to  the  Wanderer. 
This  idea  occurs  in  several  places  in  Byron's  poetry,  notably 
in  a  Fragment  (P.  IV,  52)  of  this  same  July: 

"The  absent  are  the  dead. 
Who  haunt  us  from  tranquillity,  and  spread 
A  di^eary  shroud  around  us,  and  invest 
With  sad  remembrancers  our  hours  of  rest." 

In  his  Detached  Ihoughts  (No.  74,  LJ.  V,  446),  occurs  the  ex- 
pression, "Deference  to  the  dead,  to  the  living,  and  to  those 
who  must  be  both."  It  is  at  least  possible  that  Astarte's 
"death"  may  have  the  same  hidden  meaning,  particular!}^  since 
such  an  explanation  alone  satisfies  certain  statements  in  the 
text  of  the  play. 

^  These  words,  however,  perhaps  refer  to  the  Chamois-hunter. 


Manfred.  7 1 

The  fate  of  Astarte  and  of  the  Lady  are  explained  l)y 
mutual  comparison.  In  The  Dream  the  cause  of  the  Lady's 
grief  and  madness  is  left  unrevealed/  but  the  efect  is  plainly 
told:  madness,  "the  sickness  of  the  soul,"  as  it  were  a  spiritual 
death.  On  tlie  other  hand,  while  the  nature  of  the  catastrophe 
whicli  overwhelmed  Astarte  is  only  hinted  at,  the  cause^  is 
openly  stated  to  have  been  Manfred's  fatal  embrace.  After 
this  dim  destiny  has  overtaken  the  Beloved,  the  fate  of  Manfi-ed 
and  the  Wanderer  is  alike.  Both  have  sought  for  death,  and 
to  both  the  boon  has  been  denied.  "I  have  ivander'd  o'er  the 
earth,"  says  Manfred  (II,  iv,  143);  he  breathed  "the  difficult 
air  of  the  iced  mountain's  top"  (II,  ii,  63),  and  says: 

"Tlie  face  of  the  earth  hath  maddened  me,  and  I 

Take  refuge  in  her  mysteries,  and  pierce 

To  the  abodes  of  those  who  govern  her"  (II,  ii,  63  f.); 

and  he  holds  converse  with  the  "spirits  of  the  unbounded 
Universe."  Compare  the  last  change  that  came  o'er  the  spu-it 
of  the  dream.  Manfred  is  "a  man  of  many  thoughts",  and 
on  the  face  of  the  Wanderer  "a  tablet  of  unutterable  thought 
was  traced."  So  far  as  it  goes**  the  parallel  is  exact,  and 
being  fairly  obvious  has  been  partly  noted  by  Mr.  Coleridge 
in  his  comments  on  The  Dream.  It  becomes  yet  more  striking 
when  the  fact  is  recalled  that  the  last  act  of  Manfred  was  not 
written  till  months  later,  and  that  the  portion  written  under 
the  same  inspiration  that  produced  The  Dream  ends  with 
Manfred  still  alive  and  like  the  Wanderer  in  misery.  Wheri 
the  Chamois-hunter  declares  him  insane,  Manfred  exclaims: 
"I  would  I  were  —  for  then  the  things  I  see 
Would  he  hut  a  distempered  dream"  (II,  i,  61  f.) 

In  those  two  earlier  poems,  then,  Byron  to  some  extent 
anticipated  his  own  later  full  development  of  the  theme  of 
crime,  love,  loss,  and  remorse.  In  Manfred  he  was  therefore 
working  with  material  already  familiar  to  him,   and  this  fact 


^  Why  this  should  be  so  the  biographical  references  in  the  poem  suffi- 
ciently explain,  whether  we  accept  Mr.  Edgcumbe's  theory  or  not. 

'^  Which  had  to  be  suppressed  in  a  poem  so  indiscreet  as  The  Dream. 

*  The  reservation  here  has  reference  to  the  Vanitas  scientiae  which, 
as  has  been  said,  is  part  of  the  indebtedness  of  Manfred  to  Faust,  and 
which  does  not  influence  The  Dream. 


72  Chapter  Four. 

should  give  pause  to  over-zealous  source  finders.  In  the 
resemblance  tliere  is  a  deeper  significance,  which  links  the 
question  to  the  problem  of  the  autobiographical  revelations  of 
Manfred  and  the  larger  question  of  the  cause  of  the  separation 
of  Lord  and  Lady  Byron. 

The  autobiographical  references  in  The  Dream  are  indis- 
putable in  their  cogency.  The  poem  is  a  record  of  Byron's 
love  for  Mary  Ghaworth.  Everyone  admits  this.'  The  con- 
clusion drawn  from  the  parallels  noted  above  is  therefore 
obvious.  "Things  equal  to  the  same  thing  are  equal  to  each 
other."  Since  Mary  Ghaworth  is  the  Lady  of  The  Dream  and 
since  Astarte's  history  is  identical  with  that  of  the  Lady,  it 
follows  that  Astarte  and  the  Lady  and  Mary  Ghaworth  are  one 
and  the  same.  In  Manfred  there  is  an  open  confession  of  the 
wrong  done  her,  the  mention  of  which  m  The  Dream  would 
have  harmed  irreparably  that  reputation  which  Byron  was  so 
anxious  to  shield.  The  confession  made  in  Manfred  is  supple- 
mented by  lines  1053  f.  of  The  Giaour  (a  passage  added  during 
the  summer  of  1813  when  Byron  was  in  the  midst  of  the 
mysterious  love-affair  which  is  the  nucleus  of  the  problem.) 

The  central  difficulty  remains.  Granting  the  resemblance 
in  theme  of  The  Dream  and  Manfred,  there  are  aUusions  in 
the  drama  that  do  not,  apparently,  support  the  conclusions 
I  have  indicated.  When  Mrs.  Stowe  made  her  charges  against 
Byron's  memory,  she  instanced  as  proof  of  the  truth  of  them 
the    manifest    allusions    contained    in  Manfred.     So    also  Lord 


*  For  the  sake  of  clearness  the  familiar  facts  may  be  repeated.  The 
reference  to  the  hill  "crown'd  with  a  peculiar  diadem"  was  so  direct  that 
Mr.  Musters  in  wrath  had  the  circular  group  of  tress  on  a  hill  near  A.nnesley 
cut  down.  The  Lady  is  called  ''the  star-light  of  his  boyhood;"  Byron  had  been 
accustomed  to  speak  of  his  "bright,  morning  star  of  Annesley."  Mr.  Edgcumbe 
has  collected  the  star-similes  found  in  the  poems,  none  of  which  is  without 
significance  as  relating  to  Mary  Ghaworth.  The  later  incidents  in  The 
Dream,  the  period  of  separation,  the  last  meeting,  the  final  parting,  the 
marriages,  the  Lady's  grief  and  insanity,  and  the  Wanderer's  sojourn  among 
the  mountains,  are  all  facts  in  the  lives  of  Byron  and  Mary  Ghaworth, 
familiar  to  everyone.  There  is  no  external  evidence  to  prove  that  this  was 
a  "boyish  passion"  (E.  C.  Mayne,  Byron,  New  York,  Scribner,  1912,  I,  53) 
only,  and  there  is  the  testimony  of  many  poems  and  parts  of  poems  that 
the  love  for  Mary  Ghaworth  was  the  love  of  his  life. 


Manfred.  73 

Lovelace  chose  the  name  Astarte  as  the  title  of  his  book.' 
Mr.  Edgcumbe's  "reply"  to  this  is  a  sweeping  denial  of  the 
existence  of  such  allusions  in  the  play.  "So  far  as  we  know,'"' 
he  wTites  (p.  297),  "there  is  nothing  in  the  whole  length  of 
this  poem  to  suggest  anything  abnormal."  This  is  mere  evasion, 
since  there  manifestly  are  such  suggestions.'^  I  have  noted 
above  (p.  62)  earher  examples  of  the  occurrence  of  the  theme 
in  literature.  The  presence  of  suggestions  of  this  sin  are  in 
themselves  no  warrant  for  autobiographical  interpretations. 
Moreover  intentional  mystification  may  have  been  the  reason 
for  their  insertion.  But  the  real  significance  of  these  passages 
is  apparent  from  the  following  lines  in  The  Dream: 

"Her  sighs  were  not  for  him;  to  her  he  was 
Even  as  a  brother— -hut  no  more:  'twas  much, 
For  brotherless  she  was,  save  in  the  name 
Her  infant  friendship  had  bestowed  on  him"  (11.  64  f.) 

Here  is,  perhaps,  the  core  of  B3'ron's  mystery.  We  are  told 
that  Mary  Ghaworth  looked  upon  him  as  a  brother,  and  the 
fact  that  he  betrayed  that  confiding  friendship  made  Byron 
in  Manfred  record  this  sin  as  the  "deadliest." 

This  is  the  biographical  element  of  Manfred,  the  "something 
else"  which,  together  with  the  mountains,  made  Byron  write 
the  play.  Wliether  the  explanation  associated  with  the  names 
of  Lady  Byron,  Mrs.  Stowe  and  Lord  Lovelace  be  accepted  or 
not,  every  student  of  the  problem  must  admit  that  there  is  a 
foundation  in  actual  experience.^ 


^  Astarte,  A  fragment  of  Truth  concerning  George  Gordon  Byron, 
sixth  Lord  Byron.  By  Ralph  Milbanke,  Earl  of  Lovelace.  London,  The 
Chiswick  Press,  1905. 

2  See  especially  JI,  i.  24;  II,  ii,  105;  HI,  iii,  47. 

^  Mr.  Edgcumbe  writes  to  me:  "I  most  cordially  agree  with  your 
excellent  reasoning,  that  Byron's  remorse  was  entirely  due  to  the  fact  that 
he  had,  in  a  moment  of  weakness,  abused  her  faith  in  him  as  a  brother. 
The  lines  you  quote  are  irresistible  ...  as  proof  that  the  crime  for  which 
Manfred  reproaches  himself  is  his  betrayal  of  a  sister,  as  mentioned  in  The 
Dream  —  not  a  sister  except  in  name.  That  is  the  germ  of  previous 
misunderstanding,  and  you  will  make  it  clear  beyond  all  doubt."  I  am 
myself  not  so  certain  and  offer  it  as  a  suggestion  only.  It  is  an  additional 
link  in  the  chain  of  internal  evidence  put  together  in  Mr.  Edgcumbe's  Byron : 
the  Last  Phase,  parts  ii  and  iii.  The  external  evidence  of  that  book  is 
nearly   worthless;    Andrew  Lang   demolished  its   structure   of  inference  and 


74  Chapter  Four. 

More  than  any  other  Enghsh  poem  Manfred  is  tjpical  of 
the  Romantic  Period;  it  is  an  expression  of  the  mood  of 
Romanticism,  an  epitome  of  the  time. 

Study  of  the  sources  of  Manfred  has  shown  that  there 
are  three  chief  elements  in  the  character  of  the  protagonist, 
distinct  but   related  to   each  other.     These   are  the   themes  of 


surmise  {Fortnightly  Review,  August  1910,  n.  s.  vol.  LXXXVIII,  p.  269  f. 
See  also  Augustine  Pilon,  "Le  Crime  de  Lord  Byron,"  Revue  de  deux  Mondes, 
Jan.  15,  1912,  p.  387  f.;  Mayne,  Bi/ron,  II,  327;  Rank,  p.  546).  The  weakest 
part  of  Mr.  Edgcumbe's  book  is  his  contention  that  Mrs.  Musters  was  the 
parent  of  the  wretched  Medora  Leigh,  a  monstrous  fancy  that  even  Mr.  Francis 
Grihble  (The  Love  Affairs  of  Lord  Byron,  New  York,  Scribner,  1910,  p.  177) 
does  not  accept.  On  the  other  hand  the  evidence  produced  by  Lord  Lovelace 
is  not  complete;  his  widow  and  sister  should  be  urged  to  print  the  so-called 
confession  of  Mrs.  Leigh,  of  1816,  the  suppression  of  which  is  so  fatal  a 
weakness  in  Astarte.  Mr.  Edgcumbe  has  done  good  service  in  exposing  the 
incorrect  deductions  and  positive  misstatements  in  that  book.  He  here 
supplements  the  answer  to  Astarte  contributed  anonymously  by  the  late 
E.  H.  Pember  to  John  Murray's  privately  printed  volume,  Lord  Byron  and 
Ms  Detractors,  London,  The  Roxburghe  Club,  1906.  It  is  assuredly  deplorable 
that  a  stigma  should  have  been  put  upon  the  name  of  a  dead  woman  without 
absolute  proof  of  its  truth.  But  the  internal  evidence  of  his  poetry  —  and 
with  Byron  even  more  than  with  most  poets  such  evidence  may  be  relied 
upon  —  points  to  Mary  Chaworth  as  the  solution  of  the  problem. 

Two  other  notes  on  this  question  may  be  added.  (1)  In  The  Giaour 
there  are  references  almost  certainly  to  Mary  Chaworth.  On  this  Kolbing 
says  {Eng.  Stud.  XXVI,  289),  "Die  dafiir  vorgebrachten  beweise  wollen  wenig 
bedeuten  gegeniiber  der  tatsache,  dass  des  dichters  liebe  zu  Anne  Chaworth 
eine  unerwiederte  geblieben  ist,  wahrend  der  Giaour  ausdriicklich  hervorhebt 
'Come  what  may  I  have  been  bless'd'".  With  11.  1131  f.,  added  during  the 
summer  of  1813,  cf.  the  Epistle  to  a  Friend  (P.  Ill,  28),  where  the  allusion 
to  Mary  Chaworth  is  indisputable.  The  resemblances  between  Manfred  and 
The  Giaour  make  any  allusions  in  the  latter  poem  significant  for  the 
interpretation  of  the  former.  —  (2)  In  November,  1813  Byron  noted  in  his 
journal  (LJ.  Ill,  314)  that  his  "second  Turkish  Tale  .  .  .  was  written  to 
drive  my  thoughts  from  the  recollection  of  —  'Dear  sacred  name,  rest  ever 
unrevealed.'"  This  is  a  misquotation  of  Pope's  Eloisa  to  Abelard,  1,  9, 
the  adjective  "sacred"  being  substituted  for  the  original  "fatal".  1  am 
confident  that  the  fact  that  Mary  is  a  holy  name,  to  which,  and  to  which 
only,  the  epithet  "sacred"  is  applicable,  made  Byron,  meditating  upon  Mary, 
by  a  natural  trick  of  memory  think  that  such  was  the  reading  of  Pope's  line. 

External  and  internal  evidence  are  thus  contradictory;  such  antinomies 
can  be  solved  only  "in  the  dark  union  of  insensate  dust."  There  let  us 
leave  it  the  question. 


Manfred,  75 

Prometheus,  Don  Juan,  and  Faust.  Manfred  is  a  complete 
representative  of  no  one  of  these,  but  includes  characteristics 
of  them  all. 

The  basis  of  the  conception  is  titanic,  —  the  questioning 
of  authority  and  ceaseless  but  unavailing  revolt.  In  Manfred 
there  is  nothing  of  the  high  self-sacrifice  of  Prometheus,  who 
suffers,  Christ-like,  for  the  sake  of  men,  that  through  his  solitary 
anguish  and  perpetual  war  "the  sum  of  human  wretchedness" 
may  be  rendered  less.     But  like  Prometheus  he  is 

"a  sj-mbol  and  a  sign 
To  Mortals  of  their  fate  and  force; 
Like  [him]  Man  is  in  part  divine, 
A  troubled  stream  from  a  pure  source.'" 

Manfred  echoes  these  words;  "We,  half-dust,  half-deity!"  he 
exclaims  (I,  ii,  39  f.)  He  has  the  strength  of  Promethean  pride 
which  can  make  his  tortures  "tributory  to  his  will"  and  can 
wrench  a  victory  from  death. 

But  the  conception  is  Shelleyan  rather  than  iEschylean. 
A  Greek  could  not  forget  that  Jove  was  on  his  throne  and 
that  Prometheus  was  a  rebel,  punished  for  offences.  This  is 
admirably  brought  out  by  the  Chorus  in  the  Prometheus  Vincttis, 
which,  at  first  overwhelmed  with  pity  for  the  sufferer,  is 
gradually  alienated  by  his  exhibition  of  mad  impiety.  It  is 
notable,  however,  that  the  character  of  Zeus,  an  upstart  who 
is  remorselessly  cruel  and  in  need  of  advice  from  the  titan 
who  is  his  victim,  differs  widely  from  the  awful  majesty  of 
other  ^Eschylean  conceptions  of  the  deity.  This  debasement 
of  the  character  is  of  course  due  to  the  materials  of  the  myth 
upon  which  the  dramatist  worked.  The  reverence  for  authority, 
apparent  in  the  Prometheus  llnctus,  is  the  greatest  characteristic 
of  the  Middle  Ages.  Treachery  to  the  State  and  treachery 
towards  God  were  sins  equally  vile,  and  in  Satan's  mouths, 
at  the  "fondo  a  tutto  I'universo",  Brutus  and  Cassius  writhe 
along  with  Judas.  This  "tristo  buco"  is  in  the  very  depths, 
and  into  it  Dante  and  Virgil  are  lifted  down  by  Antaeus,  one 
of  a  number  of  giants  who  are  chained  around  the  brink  of 
the  pit.     This   dreadful  company,   scarce  elevated   above  the 


*  Bjrron,  Prometheus,  H.  45  f.,  P.  IV,  51. 


76  Chapter  Four. 

"fondo  d'ogni  reo",  includes  the  "giants  in  those  days"  of 
Genesis  and  the  earth-born  titans.  As  to  the  cause  of  their 
condemnation  Virgil  is  explicit.     Of  Ephialtes  — 

'"Questo  superbo  voll'  esser  esperto 
di  sua  potenza  contra  il  sommo  Giove,' 
disse  il  mio  duca,  'ond'  egli  ha  cotal  merto. 
Fialte  ha  nome;  e  fece  le  gi-an  prove, 
quando  i  giganti  fer  paura  ai  Dei.'"^ 

This  is  the  fate  of  rebels  against  constituted  authority.  The 
conception  is  the  antithesis  of  the  modern  spirit,  and  is  the 
link  between  iEschylus  and  Shelley.  For  "authority  forgets 
a  dying  kiag;"  after  1789  the  medieval  spirit  is  gone  forever. 
Shelley  has  nothing  of  the  Dantesque  idea.  He  suppresses 
the  iEschylean  reverence  for  high  Jove,  and  by  emphasizing 
the  typically  Greek  humanism,  which  seeks  out  the  cause  of 
the  titan's  rebellion  and  finds  it  to  be  love  of  man,  he  enlarges 
the  admirable  qualities  of  Prometheus  so  as  to  harmonize  with 
the  Shelleyan  image  of  perfection.  His  Prometheus  becomes 
the  suffering  fore-seer,  the  martyr  for  humanity;  his  Jupiter 
is  the  "god  of  the  hour",  utterly  wicked  and  fated  to  perish, 
the  Prince  of  Evil  who  fi'om  his  nature  can  endure  but  for  a 
time.  The  analogy  to  Manfred  is  close.  For  just  as  Prometheus 
is  not  in  revolt  against  Demogorgon,  but  rather  in  harmony 
with  him,  so  Manfred  breathes  no  defiance  against  "the  overruling 
Infinite",  the  "other  powers",  who  guard  and  govern  the  blessed 
and  to  whom  he  bids  even  Arimanes  bow.  This  is  apparent 
in  every  interview  with  the  spirits.^ 

The  influence  of  the  story  of  Prometheus  upon  Bj'ron  was 
always  strong,  and  while  it  finds  its  fullest  expression  in  Cain, 
it  is  not  absent  from  Manfred.  The  reviewers  were  impressed 
by  the  Promethean  tone  of  the  piece.  Byron  himself  admitted 
the  possible  indebtedness.  "The  Prometheus,  if  not  exactly  in 
in  my  plan,  has  alwaj^s  been  so  much  in  my  head,  that  I  can 
easily  conceive  its  influence  over  all  or  an3thing  that  I  have 
written"  (LJ.  IV,  174).  While  at  Harrow  he  had  translated 
part  of  a  chorus  from  JEschylus,  which  he  afterwai'ds  inserted 


1  Inferno  XXXI,  91  f . 

-  See  especially  I,  i,  152  f.;  II,  ii,  158!.;  II,  iv,  -KJf. ;  and  the  conclusion 
of  the  poem. 


Manfred.  77 

in  Hours  of  Idleness  (P.  I,  14).  References  to  the  theme  are 
of  frequent  occurrence  in  bis  writings.  Of  most  impoitance 
is  the  short  poem  Prometheus  (P.  IV,  48  f.),  in  wliich  Byron  gives 
splendid  utterance  to  a  high  and  unselfish  devotion  to  humanity. 
This  was  written  at  Diodati  in  Jul}',  1816,  not  long  before  the 
composition  of  Manfred.  Manfred  is  far  less  noble  a  personage 
than  Prometheus;  he  is  not  actuated  by  the  desire 

"To  render  .  .  .  less 

The  sum  of  human  wretchedness"  (11.  36-7), 
but  he  shares  the  endless  torment  and  unconquerable  mind, 
the  pride,  the  endurance,  and  the  defiance  of  the  titan.  It  has 
been  suggested  that  the  scene  of  Manfi-ed  upon  the  cliffs  of 
the  Jungfrau  (I,  ii)  is  borrowed  from  that  of  Prometheus  upon 
the  Caucasus,  after  the  departure  of  Kratos  and  Bia;  and  the 
close  resemblance  of  the  appeals  of  both  protagonists  to  Earth, 
the  all-bearing  mother,  makes  this  indebtedness  probable,  though 
it  Avas  most  likely  unconscious.  The  tie  that  binds  Manfred 
to  Prometheus  is  one  of  kinship  of  spirit  rather  than  of  direct 
obligation.  ^ 

The    darker    aspects    of    Manfred's    character   follow    the 

^  See  0.  Lohmann,  "Byron's  Manfred'',  Anglia  V,  311-2.  In  spite  of 
Byron's  early  and  life-long  interest  in  the  theme,  Gillardon  (p.  33)  is  inclined 
to  the  belief  that  the  Promethean  element  in  Manfred  is  due  largely  to 
the  influence  of  Shelley.  "Doch  ist  im  wesentlichen,  glaube  ich,  das  Prometheus- 
Motiv  in  der  Fassung  wie  sie  uns  in  Byron's  Gedicht  vorliegt,  trotzdem  aus 
Shelley's  Dichtung  gekoramen."  He  instances  especially  the  Ahasuerus-episode 
in  Queen  Mab  (vii,  67  f.),  where  we  find  "das  Motiv  von  dem  unbeugsamen 
Gegner  des  tyrannischen  Prinzips  des  Bosen,  der  trotz  aller  Leiden  und 
Qualen  in  seinem  Widerstand  gegen  dieses  beharrt."  On  the  other  hand 
F.  Il.Pughe  {Studien  fiber  Byron  und  Wordsworth,  Anglistische  Forschungen, 
Heft  8,  Heidelberg,  Carl  Winter,  1902,  p.  99),  with  the  enthusiasm  of  a  disciple, 
derives  Byron's  interest  in  the  theme  from  an  unexpected  source.  "In  der 
annahme  von  Shelley's  einfluss  auf  die  gestaltung  von  Byron's  Prometheus, 
diirfen  wir  wohl  Gillardon  zustimmen;  nicht  unwahrscheinlich  ist  aber  die 
mitwirkung  Wordsworth's  auf  die  gestaltung  des  gedichtes."  In  support  of 
this  Pughe  quotes  the  words  of  the  Sceptic  in  The  Excursion: 

"Say  why 
That  ancient  story  of  Prometheus  chained 
To  the  bare  rock,  on  frozen  Caucasus,"  etc.  (VI,  538  f.). 
See  the  whole  context.     This  is  going  rather  far  afield.     I  do  not  see  that 
one  needs  more  than  Byron's  testimony  of  his  interest  from  boyhood  in  the 
theme;  but  if  a  source  must  be  found  for  the  renewed  interest  of  1816,  the 
influence  of  Shelley  is  more  probable  than  that  of  Wordsworth. 


78  Chapter  Pour. 

tradition  of  Don  Juan.  These  are  the  elements  of  crime, 
egoism,  and  pride,  accompanied  b}'  the  power  to  effect  their 
fullest  practical  expression.  Sganarelle's  words  can  be  applied 
to  him.  "Un  grand  seigneur  mechant  homme  est  une  chose 
terrible."  ^  Manfred  and  Juan  are  alike  undaunted  in  the 
presence  of  the  supernatural;  but  Manfred  drives  back  the 
fiends;  Juan  on  the  contrary  is  overpowered  and  forced  down 
into  hell.  The  sombre  imagination  of  Baudelaire  has  portrayed 
Don  Juan  crossing  the  Styx^;  the  ghosts  of  his  victims  swarm 
about  him  or  writhe  in  the  black  water; 

"Mais  le  calme  heros,  courbe  sur  sa  rapiere, 
Regardait  le  sillage  et  ne  daignait  rien  voir", 

a  fit  conu'ade  of  Farinata  degli  Uberti  in  the  tombs  of  fire. 
Manfred  has  the  same  power  to  "overcome  the  torture  by 
strength  of  thought."  But  crime  is  not  tfie  philosophical  basis 
of  the  poem;  the  Don  Juan  elements  are  incidental,  not  funda- 
mental. E.  H.  Coleridge  (P.  IV,  82)  declares  that  the  central 
motive  is  remorse  for  inexpiable  crime,  a  statement  that  exalts 
the  autobiographical  interpretation  of  the  piece  out  of  all  due 
proportion.  The  crime-element  is  a  concession  to  literarj' 
fashion;  Manfred  follows  the  long  line  of  Byronic  heroes  — 
"A  heterogeneous  mass  of  glorious  blame. 
Half  virtues  and  whole  vices  being  combined."* 

But  the  philosophic  conception  would  have  been  the  same  had 
Manfred  been  portrayed  as  fi'ee  fi'om  any  stain  of  sin. 

Manfi'ed  is  more  intimately  associated  with  the  Faicsf-legend 
than  by  mere  borrowings  fi^om  Goethe.*  The  protagonist  comes 
from  an  intensely  aristocratic  race  and  the  inherited  feehngs 
of  caste,  strong  within  liim,  are  increased  by  the  isolation  in 
which  he  holds  himself.  He  stands  above,  and  aloof  from,  the 
ordinary  human  kind: 

*  Mohfere,  Dom  Juan  I,  i,  100.  Byron  may  have  read  Moli^re's  play; 
it  is  practically  certain  that  he  had  not  read  Cicognani  and  Giliberto  the 
Italian,  and  Dorimond  and  Villiers  the  French,  sources  of  Moli^re.  He  speaks 
of  "the  Spanish  tradition"  (LJ.  V,  243),  but  he  had  surely  not  read  Tirso's 
El  Burlador  de  Sevilla  y  Convldad  de  Pledra.  In  Don  Juan  (I,  i)  he 
refers  to  "the  pantomime"  as  the  source  of  general  knowledge  of  the  legend. 

'  Charles  Baudelaire,  Don  Juan  aux  Enfers.  Les  Fleurs  du  Mai,  p.  106. 
»  Don  Juan  XV,  Ivii.     Cf.  Mayne,  II,  110  f. 

*  See  Appendix  II. 


Manfred.  79 

"From  my  ^outli  upwards 
My  spirit  walked  not  with  the  souls  of  men"  (II,  ii,  50  f.). 

When  the  Chamois-hunter  tells  him  of  the  comforts  to  be  found 
in  the  "aid  of  hoh'  men  and  heavenly  patience",  he  breaks  in 
upon  him  with  — 

"Preach  it  to  mortals  of  a  dust  like  thine,  — 

I  am  not  of  thine  order!"  (II,  i,  37  f.) 

This  is  recognized  even  by  the  supernatural  powers.'  The 
presence  of  such  supermen  among  the  general  race  of  human 
beings  is  an  idea  of  frequent  occurrence  in  Byron's  poetry. 
The  greater  intellect  "moulds  another's  weakness  to  its  will" 
and  "the  power  of  thought  —  the  magic  of  the  mind'"^  binds 
to  the  leader  the  faith  of  his  followers.  This  is,  as  Shelley 
records,  a  strong  trait  in  Byron's  own  character  — 

"The  sense  that  he  was  greater  than  his  kind 
Had  struck,  methinks,  his  eagle  spu'it  blind 
By  gazing  on  its  own  exceeding  light."  '^ 

Instead  of  exercising  this  power  along  vulgar  lines,  Manfred, 
like  Faust,  exhibits  it  in  the  ceaseless  quest  after  knowledge. 
He  trusts  in  the  strength  of  mind  to  attain  to  a  spiritual 
revelation  of  the  mysteries  of  the  universe.  Arimanes  and  his 
crew  represent  the  flaming  walls  of  the  world  within  which 
his  cabined  ample  spirit  is  penned,  and  against  which  he  rebels. 
Refusing  to  submit  to  such  limitations,  he  reaches  out  into 
communion  with  the  whole.  This  is  of  course  m3^sticism,  for 
he  seeks  to  realize  the  harmony  and  unity  of  nature  to  which 
the  mystic  aspires.  For  the  attainment  of  this  spiritual  communion 
Manfred  has  relied  upon  knowledge.  His  mysticism  is,  like  that 
of  Paracelsus,  of  an  empirical  nature  and  he  seeks  revelation 
through  the  spiritual  interpretation  of  physical  facts.  This 
leads  to  a  dislike  of  speculation  apart  fi'om  actual  concrete 
experience.  Manfred  therefore  seeks  the  cause  of  death,  not 
through  abstract  speculation,  but  by  study  of  its  effects,  an 
idea  probably  suggested  to  Byron  by  the  opening  of  Shelley's 
Alastor  (11.  18     49).     Compare  especially: 


1  Cf.  e.  g.,  II,  iv,  51  f. 

2  The  Corsair  I,  182. 

"  Julian  and  Maddalo,  11.  50  f. 


80  Chapter  Pour. 

"I  have  made  my  bed 
In  charnels  and  on  coffins,  where  black  Death 
Keeps  record  of  the  trophies  won  fi'om  thee;* 
Hoping  to  still  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  thee  and  thine  by  forcing  some  lone  ghost, 
Th}^  messenger,  to  render  up  the  tale 
Of  what  we  are"  (U.  23—9). 

Byron  centres  Manfred's  inquiry  upon  the  mysterj'  of  Death, 
because  Death  is  the  very  type  of  the  unknown.  Inquiry  is 
fruitless;  he  reaches  the  boundaries  of  human  nature  and 
human  knowledge,  and  finds  there  the  nothingness  of  it  all. 
"AU  that  we  know  is,  nothing  can  be  known."  "Knowledge 
is  Sorrow",  and  Science 

"But  an  exchange  of  ignorance  for  that 
Which  is  another  kind  of  ignorance"  (II,  iv,  62  f.) 
The  secrets  of  existence  remain  unfathomed,  and  even  tliis 
much  gain  has  been  accomplished  only  by  suffering  and  sacrifice. 
To  win  what  has  proved  but  dead-sea  fruit  Manfred  had  abandoned 
the  society  of  men.  Unhke  Paracelsus,  he  had  had  "sullen 
fiends  to  do  his  bidding,  fallen  and  hateful  sprites"  to  help 
him,^  but  their  aid  had  been  rejected,  because  it  came  with  a 
condition,  a  pact,  which  would  have  broken  in  upon  the  un- 
trammelled freedom  of  his  mind. 

This  rejection  of  the  pact  with  the  spirits  of  evil  is  Byron's 
great  alteration  of  the  Faust -idea.^  Manfred  retains  his  inde- 
pendence. There  is  a  variation  of  the  same  theme  in  Cain 
(I,  i,  302  f.)  and  it  becomes  the  central  idea  of  The  Deformed 
Transformed^  where  the  devil  dispenses  with  the  contract  signed 
in  blood,  saying, 

"You  shall  have  no  bond 
But  your  own  will,  no  contract  save  your  deeds"  (I,  i,  151  f.). 

Manfi'ed's  quest  after  knowledge  thus  ends  in  failure,  and 
this  failure  is,  as  it  were,  embodied  in  the  character  of  Astarte. 
Whatever  autobiographical  meaning  the  conception  ma}'  have, 
philosophically  Astarte  is  introduced  to  satisfy  the  concrete 
demand  for  dramatic  presentation  of  the  abstract  mood  of  the 
piece.     Her  dim  and   awful  history  is  an   instance  of  the  fact 


'  Shelley  is  addressing  the  "Mother  of  this  unfathomable  world." 

"^  Browning,  Paracelsus  I,  303  f . 

*  Maturin's  Melmoth  the   Wanderer  may  have  furnished  him  a  hint. 


Manfred.  81 

that  "Knowledge  quenches  Love,"  that  "Sorrow  is  Knowledge." 
There  are  two  other  instances  in  Byron's  di'amas  of  this  per- 
sonification of  the  abstract  thought.  One  is  the  character  of 
Loredano  in  The  Two  Foscari,  who,  besides  functioning  as  the 
chief  factor  in  the  downfall  of  the  Doge  and  his  son,  embodies 
the  pride  of  place,  the  inexorability,  and  the  injustice  of  the 
Venetian  aristocracy.  The  other  is  Steno  in  Marino  Faliero, 
whose  insult  to  the  Doge  is  the  last  drop  of  bitterness  which 
makes  his  cup  overflow,  but  who  is  also  the  concrete  embodiment 
of  the  vileness  of  Venetian  affairs. 

The  mood  of  wliich  Astarte  is  the  concrete  expression  is 
that  of  melancholy  begotten  of  reflexion  concerning  knowledge 
under  conditions  of  solitude.  The  Manfred-idea  is  that  knowledge 
brings  trouble  and  unhappiness.  With  this  is  mingled  a  love 
of  solitude  inducing  melancholj^;  and  forming  the  background 
of  the  poem,  there  is  a  suggestion  of  Rousseauian  "simplicity 
of  life."  All  these  elements  are  aspects  of  romanticism.  The 
return  to  the  life  of  nature  is  a  negation  of  all  government, 
convention,  and  societ3^  It  is  the  glorification  of  exile  and 
solitude.  This  solitude  leads  to  introspection,  brooding  melan- 
choly, and  that  Weltschmerz  so  characteristic  of  the  time.  The 
exaltation  of  introspection,  the  constant  prying  into  the  secret 
recesses  of  the  soul,  is  the  cause  of  that  individualism  which 
gives  rise  to  the  abundance  of  personality  so  obvious  in  romantic 
literature.  Thus  regarded,  Manfred  becomes,  as  I  have  said, 
an  epitome  of  the  prevailing  thought  of  the  time. 

But  Manfred  does  not  rest  in  mere  negation;  in  spite  of 
failure  he  refuses  to  abandon  the  right  to  know.  He  has  "sounded 
on,  a  dim  and  perilous  wa}',"  and  now  he  scorns  to  subside 
into  conformity.  The  obstacles  in  the  way  of  complete  and 
final  knowledge  may  be  insurmountable,  but  the  problem,  What 
is  beyond?  remains  as  absorbing  as  ever.  The  "obstinate 
questionings"  continue,  and  the  demand  for  those  truths 
"Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find. 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave." 

He  is  the  seeker  after  absolute  truth.  Opposed  to  him  are 
two  figures  wiiich  represent  the  doctrinaire  attitude,  the  accept- 
ance of  truth  as  revealed  by  authority.  The  Chamois-hunter, 
the  ordinary  man  in  whom  there  is  more  of  the  dust  than  of 

UeB|ieria,  B.  a  6 


32  Chapter  Pour. 

the  deity  that  commingle  in  our  nature,  is  yet  able  to  rescue 
Manfred  and  to  guide  him  down  in  safety  to  the  lowlands. 
He  is  the  devotee  of  a  doctrinaire  religion;  he  urges  Manfred 
to  seek  comfort  in  the  aid  of  holy  men  (II,  i,  34),  and  prays 
that  penitence  may  restore  him  to  himself  (II,  i,  88).  The 
contrast  which  is  hinted  at  in  these  scenes  with  the  hunter  is 
fuUy  expressed  later  in  the  poem.  The  Abbot  of  Saint  Maurice 
embodies  the  implicit  acceptance  of  dogma  as  opposed  to  the 
search  after  absolute  truth.  On  his  first  visit  to  Manfred  he 
announces  his  mission  to  him: 

"I  come  to  save  and  not  destroy": 
I  would  not  pry  into  thy  secret  soul: 
But  if  these  things  be  sooth,  there  still  is  time 
Eor  penitence  and  pity:  reconcile  thee 
With  the  true  church,  and  through  the  church  to 
Heaven. 

Manfred:  I  hear  thee.     This  is  my  reply  —  whate'er 
I  may  have  been,  or  am,  doth  rest  between 
Heaven  and  myself  —  I  shall  not  choose  a  mortal 
To  be  my  mediator  —  Have  I  sinned 
Against  your  ordinances?  prove  and  punish  I 

Abbot:  My  son!  I  did  not  speak  of  punishment. 
But  penitence  and  pardon ;  —  with  thyself 
The  choice  of  such  remains  —  and  for  the  last. 
Our  institutions  and  our  strong  belief 
Have  given  me  power  to  smooth  the  path  from  sin 
To  higher  hopes  and  better  thoughts"  (III,  i,  47f.) 

The  same  dependence  upon  dogma  is  characteristic  of  the  monk 
in  The  Giaour  (11.  818 f.,  1204  f.,  1267  f.)  and  of  Adam  and  Abel 
in  Cain.  It  is  exaggerated  to  the  point  of  caricature  in  the 
conception  of  Noah  in  Heaven  and  Earth.  In  Manfred  Byron 
gives  clearest  expression  to  this  opposition  to  traditionalism. 
Trelawny  noted  that  "positiveness  and  dogmatism  irritate  him, 
he  says  nothing  is  certain."*  But  with  the  sneer  at  the 
priestly  attitude  there  is  mingled  a  sense  of  the  pathos  of  a 
mind  confined  by  authority.  This  is  no  mere  vulgar  attack 
on  orthodoxy,  such  as  inspired  SheUey's  youthful  work.  It  is 
part  of  Byron's  entire  attitude  of  mind.  "The  inborn  tyrann}' 
of  years"    and    "the   omnipotence   of  opinion"    he   ceaselessly 

'  E.  J.  Trelawny,  Recollections  of  Byron,  Shelley,  and  the  author,  I,  79. 


Manfred.  83 

attacked.  The  problem  is  in  a  way  one  of  epistemology.  The 
eighteenth  century  combined  theoretic  intellectual  humility  with 
almost  boundless  practical  confidence  in  the  mind.  Byron's 
position  is  antithetical;  though  conscious  of  the  limits  beyond 
which  the  mind  has,  as  yet,  failed  to  penetrate,  he  continues 
to  assert  the  boundless  possibilities  of  the  intellect. 

Manfred  is  thus  the  expression  of  the  romantic  ideal  as 
opposed  to  the  classic  ideal.  "CUose  thy  Byron;  open  thy 
Goethe,"  counselled  Teufelsdrockh.  He  had  better  have  left 
them  both  unclosed.  For  Goethe  teaches  the  contented  accept- 
ance of  limitations;  not  sluggish  ease,  but  eager  effort  towards 
the  full  realization  of  definite  capabilities,  classic  finish,  rounded 
wholeness,  confined  perfection.  The  choice  is  the  truth  rather 
than  the  quest  of  truth.  There  is  danger  in  this,  for  in  a  world 
where  all  things  are  struggling  through  chaos  into  harmony 
nought  in  which  there  is  life  is  complete.  In  death  alone  is 
there  realization  of  definite  ends.  Here  is  the  fundamental 
distinction  between  classicism  and  romanticism.  And  Byron, 
in  Manfred  and  tlu'oughout  his  poetry,  points  to  an  ideal  truer 
and  nobler  than  Goethe's  just  because  it  is  impossible  of  ac- 
complishment. Such  a  doctrine  is  indeterminate,  enormous; 
but  it  is  full  of  inspiration. 

It  is  no  doctrine  of  mere  negation,  such  as  Garl3de  attributes 
to  Byron,  and  the  reader  who  finds  Manfred  only  a  poem  of 
revolt  has  not  reached  its  full  meaning.  For  the  final  message 
of  the  poem  is  very  positive.  "Doubt,"  says  B5Ton  in  JJon 
Juan  (XI,  11),  is  the  "sole  prism  of  the  Truth's  rays,"  and 
since  "adversity  is  the  first  path  to  Truth"  {ihid.  XII,  50)  and 
Truth  is  "the  grand  desideratum"  {ihid.  VII,  81),  Manfred  bravely 
faces  this  doubt  and  seeks  to  master  it.  He  shuns  nothing; 
he  fears  nothing;  he  will  dare  "the  worst  to"know  it,"  ^  and 
though  the  end  is  failure,  he  remains  free,  —  free  from  alliance 
with  evil,  free  from  submission  to  pain.  Manfred  is  absolutely 
anti-fatalistic.  Byron's  opinions  on  free  will  and  determinism 
shifted.  In  Lara,  for  example,  there  are  expressions  of  a 
distinctly  fatalistic  nature,  e.  g.  "some  mysterious  fate"  (1.  879), 
"destiny  beset  him  there"  (1.  900);  but  even  Lara,  it  is  said. 


^ 


>  Don  Juan  XIV,  5. 


84  Chapter  Four. 

"at  last  confounded  good  and  ill, 
And  half  mistook  for  fate  the  acts  of  will"  (1.  335  f.) 

In  Manfred  there  are  no  such  doubts.  "Man  is  man  and  master 
of  his  fate."  To  the  spirits  who  swarm  about  him  when  he 
is  dying  he  cries: 

"Thou  didst  not  tempt  me,  and  thou  couldst  not  tempt  me; 

I  have  not  been  thy  dupe,  nor  am  thy  prey  — 

But  was  my  own  destroyer,  and  will  be 

My  own  hereafter.  —  Back,  ye  baffled  fiends! 

The  hand  of  Death  is  on  me  —  but  not  yours!" 

(Ill,  iv,  137  f.) 

Manfred  is  thus  the  fuUest  expression  of  a  doctrine  that  recurs 
constantly  throughout  Byron's  poetry  —  the  doctrine  of  the 
authoritative  and  reflective  principle  of  conscience,  the  Cate- 
gorical Imperative,  the  affirmation  that  "Manx's  Conscience  is 
the  Oracle  of  God."  It  is  a  declai-ation  of  moral  and  spiritual 
responsibility ;  in  Meredith's  words  — 

"I  take  the  hap 
Of  all  my  deeds.     The  wind  that  fills  ray  sails, 
Propels;  but  I  am  helmsman.     Am  I  wrecked, 
I  know  the  devil  has  sufficient  weight 
To  bear:  I  lay  it  not  on  him,  or  fate."^ 

To  understand  and  appreciate  Manfred  one  must  see  that 
its  chief  message  is  one  of  encouragement  and  hope.  It  tells 
of  the  triumph  of  mind  over  matter,  of  soul  over  body,  in  that 
conflict  which  a  duaUstic  conception  of  the  universe  implies. 
Here  again  is  one  of  the  great  Byronic  "notes,"  for  his  poetry 
and  philosophy  are  shot  through  with  the  idea  of  this  struggle. 
In  Manfred,  despite  the  sense  of  the  clod  of  clay  which  clogs 
the  soul,  the  final  victory  is  felt  to  remain  with  the  forces 
of  good." 


^  Modern  Love  xx. 

*  As  Manfred  is  Byron's  first  considerable  effort  in  blank-verse,  I  have 
thought  it  worth  while  to  scan  the  entire  play.  The  results  of  this  exami- 
nation are  what  one  would  expect  from  a  poet  unaccustomed  to  blank-verse. 
There  is  but  one  hypermetric  line  (III,  iii,  9)  and  there  are  only  three  frag- 
mentary lines  (II,  iv,  165;  III,  ii,  30;  III,  iii,  59).  Of  these  the  last  two  are 
the  conventional  closing  fragments  at  the  end  of  scenes.  All  other  lines  in 
the  play  are  quite  regular.  There  are  but  four  cases  of  epic  caesura  (I,  ii. 
52;  I,  ii,  92;  11,  i,  87;  111,  iv,  58).     Three  of  these  lines  are  divided  between 


The  Two  Venetian  Plays.  85 

Chapter  Five. 
The  Two  Venetian  Plays. 

A  trait  observable  throus:hout  Byron's  poetry,  often  in 
most  unlikely  places,  is  his  fidelity  to  fact.  Most  of  \he  juvenilia 
have  a  basis  of  trutli  capable  of  precise  determination;  as 
early  as  1806  he  sent  to  a  friend  "a  gingle  (sic)  of  rhyme  .  .  . 
founded  on  fact"  (LJ,  I,  105).  Several  lines  from  Hints  from 
Horace  bear  upon  this  subject. 

(1)  "Stud}'  Nature's  page, 

And  sketch  the  striking  traits  of  every  age"  (II.  217  f.) 

(2)  "In  scenes  exciting  joy  or  grief 

We  loathe  the  action  which  exceeds  belief"  (11.  287  f.) 

(3)  "Fiction  does  best  when  taught  to  look  hke  Truth"  (1.  537). 

(4)  "Expect  no  credit  for  too  wondrous  tales"  (1.  539). 

The  story  of  The  Giaour  was  suggested  by  an  actual  adventure 
(LJ.  II,  258  and  311).  Byron  burnt  his  early  novel  and  comedy 
because  they  "ran  into  realities"  (LJ.  II,  337).  Of  The  Bride 
of  Abydos  he  said,  "For  my  costume  and  my  correctness  .  .  . 
I  will  combat  lustily"  (LJ.  II,  283),  and  that  it  was  "drawn 
from  existence"  (LJ.  II,  373).  The  Corsair  was  written  "much 
from  existence"  (LJ.  II,  382).  Most  of  all  is  this  observable  in 
Don  Juan.  "You  may  rely,"  he  wrote  (P.  VI,  98),  "on  my 
using  no  nautical  word  not  founded  on  authority,  and  no 
circumstance  not  grounded  in  reality."  And  again  (LJ.  V,  346), 
"Almost  all  Don  Juan  is  real  life,  either  my  own,  or  from 
people  I  knew."  Note  especially  the  shipwreck,  the  siege  of 
Ismail,  and  the  description  of  Newstead.  Note  also  Mazeppa, 
The  Prisoner  of  Chillon,  The  Island,  the  poems  founded  on 
events  in  the  lives  of  Dante  and  Tasso,  and  others  too  numerous 
to  mention. 


two  speakers,  which  makes  more  easy  the  occurrence  of  the  resolved  arsis. 
Caesuraless  lines  are  very  few;  in  fact  there  is  perhaps  no  line  without  some 
interior  pause,  however  light.  Harsh  and  irregular  enjambment  is  avoided, 
there  are  very  few  double  feminine  endings  and  weak  endings,  and  the 
employment  of  syllabic  substitution  is  very  timid.  A  number  of  words, 
however,  admit  ^  such  scansion,  though  the  elision  of  one  vowel  is  more 
probably  intended. 


86  Chapter  Five. 

This  heed  for  facts  is  notable  in  Byron's  descriptions  of 
nature,  and  it  has  been  especially  praised  by  Ruskin.  "He 
is  the  truest,  the  sternest  Seer  of  the  Nineteenth  C-entury. 
No  imagination  dazzles  him,  no  terror  daunts,  and  no  interest 
betrays."*  "Here  at  last  I  had  found  a  man  -who  spoke  only 
of  what  he  had  seen  and  known ;  and  spoke  without  exaggeration, 
without  mystery,  without  enmity  and  without  mercy.  'That 
is  so  —  make  what  you  will  of  it!'  .  .  .  The  Arabian  Nights 
had  told  me  of  thieves  who  had  lived  in  enchanted  caves,  and 
beauties  who  fought  with  genii  in  the  air;  but  Byron  told  me 
of  thieves  with  whom  he  had  ridden  on  their  own  hills,  and 
of  the  fair  Persians  or  Greeks  who  lived  and  died  under  the 
very  sun  that  rose  over  my  visible  Norwood  hills  ...  Of  all 
things  within  the  range  of  human  thought  he  felt  the  facts 
and  discerned  the  natures,  with  accurate  justice  .  .  .  Even 
Shakespeare's  Venice  was  visionary;  and  Portia  as  impossible 
as  Miranda.  But  Byron  told  me  of^  and  reanimated  for  me, 
the  real  people  whose  feet  had  worn  the  marble  I  trod  on."' 

This  rationalistic  common  sense  side  of  Byron's  nature, 
this  anomalous  survival  of  classicism  into  the  heart  of  roman- 
ticism, led  him  naturally  to  the  historical  drama,  because  of 
its  comparatively  slight  dependence  upon  imagination,  its 
harmony  with  a  rationalistic  conception  of  intellectual  activity, 
its  basis  upon  experience.  "I  could  not  write  upon  anything," 
he  told  Moore  (LJ.  HI,  254),  "without  some  personal  experience 
and  foundation."  From  Venice  he  wrote  (LJ.  V,  93),  "I  hate 
things  all  fiction;  and  therefore  the  Merchant  and  Othello  have 
no  great  associations  to  me:  but  Pierre  has.  There  should 
always  be  some  foundation  of  fact  for  the  most  airy  fabric, 
and  pure  fiction  is  but  the  talent  of  a  liar."  These  senti- 
ments received  their  best  expression  in  the  two  Venetian 
tragedies. 

Marino  Faliero. 
On  February  25,  1817,  Byron  wrote  to  Murray  (LJ.  IV,  58), 
"Look   into   'Moore's   (Dr.  Moore's)    View  of  Italy'   for  me;    in 


*  From  a  suppressed   passage   in  Fiction.    Fair  and  Foul;    Works 
XXXIV,  328. 

«  Praeterita  I,  viii;   Works  XXXV,  149—51. 


The  Two  Venetian  Plays.  87 

one  of  the  volumes  you  will  find  an  account  of  the  Doge 
Valiere  (it  ought  to  be  Falieri)  and  his  conspiracy,  or  the 
motives  of  it.  Get  it  transcribed  for  me,  and  send  it  in  a  letter 
to  me  soon.  1  want  it,  and  cannot  find  so  good  an  account 
of  that  business  here;  though  the  veiled  porti-ait  and  the  place 
where  he  was  once  crowned,  and  afterwards  decapitated,  still 
exist  and  are  shown.  I  have  searched  all  their  histories;  but 
the  policy  of  the  old  Aristocracy  made  their  writers  silent  on 
his  motives,  which  were  a  private  grievance  against  one  of  the 
Patricians.  I  mean  to  write  a  tragedy  upon  the  subject,  which 
appears  to  me  very  dramatic;  an  old  man,  jealous,  and  con- 
spiring against  the  state  of  which  he  was  actually  the  reigning 
Chief.  This  last  circumstance  makes  it  the  most  remarkable 
and  only  fact  of  the  kind  in  all  history  of  all  nations."  This 
letter  contains  in  embryonic  form  many  of  the  ideas  afterwards 
developed  in  the  play.  "But  other  interests  and  ideas  claimed 
his  attention,"  says  Mr.  Coleridge  (P,  IV,  325),  "and  for  more 
than  three  years  the  project  slept."  Finally  on  April  9,  1820, 
he  tells  Murray  that  he  has  "begun  a  tragedy  on  the  subject 
of  Marino  Faliero"  (LJ.  V,  7).  The  drama  was  finished  by 
July  17  (LJ.  V,  52),  and  the  fair  copy  was  in  England  probably 
by  October  6,  1820  (LJ.  V,  86).  The  play  was  published  early 
in  January,  1821.  There  was  almost  immediate  trouble  with 
the  management  of  Drury  Lane,  where  the  piece  was  announced 
for  performance.  After  some  delay  Byron's  solicitors  consented 
to  the  presentation,  but  as  Byron  had  foreseen,  his  play  proved 
quite  imsuited  to  the  stage.  "I  was  ill-used  in  the  extreme," 
he  told  Medwin  (p.  119),  "by  the  Doge  being  brought  on  the 
stage  at  all,  after  my  Preface." 

Byron's  primaiy  endeavour  in  the  composition  of  Marino 
Faliero  was  for  historical  accuracy.  "History  is  closely  followed," 
he  wrote  to  Murray  (LJ.  V,  52).  "Dr.  Moore's  account  is  in 
some  respects  false,  and  in  all  foolish  and  flippant.  None  of 
the  Chronicles  (and  1  have  consulted  Sanuto,  Sandi,  Navagero, 
and  an  anonymous  Siege  of  Zara,  besides  the  histories  of  Laugier, 
Daru,  Sismondi,  etc.)  state,  or  even  hint,  that  he  begged  his 
life;  they  merely  say  that  he  did  not  deny  the  conspiracy  .  .  . 
I  don't  know  what  your  parlour  boarders  will  think  of  the 
drama  I  have  founded  upon  this  extraordinary  event:  the  only 


88  Chapter  Five. 

similar  one  in  history  is  the  story  of  Agis,  King  of  Sparta,  a 
prince  ivith  the  Commons  against  the  aristocracy,  and  losing 
his  life  therefor;  but  it  shall  be  sent  when  copied."  E.  H.  Coleridge 
(P.  V,  326 — 7)  succinctly  states  the  sources  employed  by  Byron, 
and  it  is  unnecessary  to  repeat  here  the  list  of  chroniclers.  Nor 
is  it  of  artistic  and  poetic  importance  to  note  how  little  actual 
foundation  thei'e  is  for  the  legend  of  the  downfall  of  the  traitor 
Faliero.  "The  truth  of  imagination  exceeds  and  transcends  at 
all  points  the  accident  of  fact." 

I  have  already  discussed  the  influence  of  Alfieri  upon 
Byron's  regular  dramas,  which  is  most  apparent  in  Marino 
Faliero.  It  is  remarkable,  hoAvever,  that  in  spite  of  his  enthu- 
siastic interest  in  his  new  foreign  model,  Byron  betrays  in 
Marino  Faliero,  more  than  anywhere  else,  his  thorough  knowledge 
of  Shakespeare.^  But  more  direct  than  the  influence  of  Shake- 
speare is  the  influence  of  Otway's  Venice  Preserved.  In  a  note 
to  Marino  Faliero  V,  iii,  8,  (P.  IV,  4-54)  Byron  writes,  "I  find 
in  reading  over  (since  the  completion  of  this  tragedy),  for  the 
first  time  these  six  years,  Venice  Preserved,  a  similar  reply  on 
a  different  occasion  by  Renault,  and  other  coincidences  arising 
from  the  subject.  I  need  hardly  remind  the  gentlest  reader 
that  such  coincidences  must  be  accidental,  from  the  very  facility 
of  their  detection  by  reference  to  so  popular  a  play  on  the 
stage  and  in  the  closet  as  Otway's  chef-d'oeuvre."  Byron  was 
peculiarly  sensitive  to  the  charge  of  plagiarism,  and  his  word 
may  be  taken  that  the  resemblances  were  coincidences.  But 
he  knew  Otway's  play  well.  In  Childe  Harold  (IV,  4)  he  asso- 
ciated the  Rialto  with  "Shylock  and  the  Moor  and  Pierre."" 
In  two  letters  he  refers  to  the  coincidences  between  the  plays. 
"I  am  aware  of  what  you  sa}'^  of  Otway,"  he  tells  Murray 
(LJ.  IV,  91),  "and  am  a  great  admirer  of  his,  —  all  except  that 
maudlin  bitch  of  chaste  lewdness  and  blubbering  curiosity, 
Belvidera,  whom  I  utterly  despise,  abhor,  and  detest;  but  the 
story  of  Marino  Faliero  is  different,  and,  I  think,  so  much 
finer,  that  I  wish  Otway  had  taken  it  instead."  Again  (LJ.  V, 
89),  "Shakespeare  and  Otway  had  a  million  advantages  over 
me,  besides  the  incalculable  one  of  being  dead  from  one  to 

^  See  Appendix  III. 

«  See  also  LJ.  1,339;  11,409. 


The  Two  Venetian  Plays.  89 

two  centuries,  and  having  been  both  born  blackguards  (which 
are  such  attractions  to  the  Gentle  hving  reader):  let  me  then 
preserve  the  only  one  which  1  could  possibly  have  —  that  of 
having  been  at  Venice,  and  entered  more  into  the  local  spirit 
of  it.     I  claim  no  more." 

Hermann  Schiffs  dissertation '  is  devoted  in  part  to  a 
comparison  of  Marino  Faliero  and  Venice  Preserved.  To  his 
work  I  am  partly  indebted  in  the  following  paragraphs.  Otway's 
play'  is  so  little  read  that  an  outline  of  the  plot  must  be  given. 
Venice  Preserved  is  founded  on  an  historical  novel  by  Saint- 
Real,  La  Co7iJurafion  des  Espagnols  contre  la  Venise  en  1618.* 
In  the  })lay  the  actual  leaders  of  the  historical  conspiracy  occupy 
very  minor  parts  and  the  interest  centres  in  the  fortunes  of 
two  Venetians,  Jaffier  and  Pierre,  who  are  among  the  native 
conspirators  with  the  Spaniards.  Belvidera,  the  daughter  of 
a  Venetian  senator,  has  married  Jaffier  against  her  father's  will, 
and  the  two  live  together  in  great  poverty,  shamefully  treated 
by  her  father.  Pierre,  one  of  the  plotters,  hears  of  Jaffier's 
wretched  existence  and  persuades  him  to  join  the  conspiracy. 
Jaffier  consents  and  swears  secrecy.  Pierre  stands  surety  for 
him,  when  the  other  conspirators  are  suspicious  of  the  son-in- 
law  of  a  senator.  Jaffier  himself  surrenders  his  dearly  loved 
wife  to  one  of  the  band  as  a  guarantee  of  good  faith.  The 
plot  is  then  revealed  to  him  and  he  learns  that  his  father-in- 
law  is  among  those  to  be  murdered.  This  is  too  great  a  trial 
to  him,  and  he  forewarns  his  wife.  Moved  by  her  tears  and 
enraged  by  the  insults  offered  to  her  by  the  conspirator  who 
has  had  her  in  charge,  he  betrays  the  plot  to  the  Senate. 
Arrests  follow;  the  men  are  tried  and  condemned.  Jaffier  is 
filled  with  remorse.  When  about  to  die  Pierre  pardons  him 
for  betraying  him.  Jaffier  then,  upon  the  scaffold,  stabs 
Pierre,  thus  saving  him  from  the  disgrace  of  execution,  and 
kills  himself.* 


*  Hermann  Schiff,  Ubcr  Lord  Byruns  "Marino  Faliero"  und  seine 
anderen  geschichtlichen  Dratnen.  Marburg,  1910. 

"^  TJie  best  Flays  of  Thomas  Otivay,  ed.  Roden  JMuel,  Mermaid  Series, 
London,  T.  Fisher  (Jnwin,  p.  287  f. 

*  See  Roden  Noel's  introduction  to  the  play,  p.  288. 

*  There  is  a  comic  underplot  of  a  disgusting  nature  to  which  there  is 


90  Chapter  Five. 

In  the  character  of  Jaffier  there  are  combined  the  two 
motives  that  Byron  divides  between  Faliero  and  Bertram.  The 
Doge  is  suspected  by  the  conspirators  because  he  is  Doge  (III, 
ii,  90  f.);  Jaffier  because  he  is  a  member  of  the  aristocracy. 
Both  join  the  plot  because  of  insults  heaped  upon  them.  The 
connection  between  Jaffier  and  Bertram  is  even  closer.  Both 
are  unable  to  break  loose  from  private  ties;  both  are  moved 
to  betray  their  comrades,  not  by  innate  treachery,  but  by  com- 
passion. In  both  plays  the  conspirators  at  their  trial  show  a 
like  scorn  of  the  informer.  Compare  also  the  following  details. 
Calendaro  says  of  Bertram: 

"Yet  as  he  has  no  mistress,  and  no  wife 
To  work  upon  his  milkiness  of  spirit. 
He  may  go  through  the  ordeal;  it  is  well 
He  is  an  orphan,  friendless  save  in  us: 
A  woman  or  a  child  had  made  him  less 
Than  either  in  resolve"  (II,  ii,  79  f.) 
Just  such  motives  as  those  that  Calendaro  is  confident  cannot 
appeal  to  Bertram  lead  Jaffier  to  betray  the  plot.     Belvidera 
tries  to  get  the  secret  from  her  husband  in  much  the   same 
way  as  Angiola  does  in  Marino  Faliero.     Both  poets  are  here 
indebted   to   the  scene   between   Brutus   and  Portia   in  Julius 
Caesar.  Otway  admits  the  resemblance  in  making  Jaffier  exclaim, 
"O  Portia,  Portia!  what  a  soul  was  thine!"  (Ill,  ii).    Pierre,  too, 
bears  some  resemblance  to  Faliero.     He  is  moved  to  plot  by 
the  overweening  pride  of  the  aristocracy.^     He  has  been  of 
service  to  the  state,  and  when  condemned  to  death,  his  speech, 
beginning  — 

"Are  these  the  trophies  I've  deserved  for  fighting 
Your  battles  with  confederated  powers?"  (IV,  ii), 
might  come  from  the  mouth  of  Fahero.    Faliero's  final  speech, 
"I  speak  to  Time,  and  to  Eternity"  (V,  iii,  26  f.)  may  be  com- 
pared with  Jaffier's  "Final  destruction  seize  on  all  the  world" 
(V,  ii.  If.),  especigJly  with  the  lines: 

"Let  Venice  burn 

Hotter  than  all  the  rest;  here  kindle  hell 
Ne'er  to  extinguish"  (11.  6  f.) 


no  parallel  in  Marino  Faliero.     Otway's  introduction  of  the  supernatural 
in  his  final  scene  likewise  offers  no  analogue. 
'  Gf.  Act  I,  Scene  i,  passim. 


The  Two  Venetian  Plays.  91 

But  the  inspiration  of  Faliero's  terrific  denunciation  of  the 
"Gehenna  of  the  waters,"  "the  Sea-Sodom,"  was  not  literary, 
but  "from  the  life."  It  reflects  Byron's  reaction  from  the 
excesses  of  his  Venetian  sojourn.' 

The  resemblances  between  Otway's  and  Byron's  dramas 
do  not  extend  to  the  mood  and  tone  of  the  pieces.  Byron  is 
thoroughly  in  sympathy  with  the  conspu-ators ;  here,  as  always, 
he  is  the  poet  of  revolution.  Otway  rather  looks  on  the  fate 
of  Jaffier  and  Pierre  in  the  light  of  awful  examples.  In  his 
dedication  he  speaks  of  "the  encroachment  of  republicans," 
and  other  expressions  betray  his  royalist  sympathies.  Byron 
reflects  the  ferment  and  excitement  of  Italy;  Otway  covertly 
satirizes  events  in  English  politics  of  the  time.^  Byron's  play 
is  serious  from  beginning  to  end;  there  is  no  comedy,  no  humour, 
hardly  a  suggestion  of  B3'ronic  wnt.  Otway's  tragedy  is  disfigured 
by  scenes  of  gross  comedy,  especially  those  in  which  the  old 
Senator  Antonio  "*  appears.  The  subjective  element,  so  strong 
in  all  Byron's  verse,  is  almost  entirely  absent  from  Otway, 
though  Schiff  (p.  9)  sa5^s,  "Jaffiers  Liebe  zu  Belvidera  ist  eine 
Darstellung  von  Otways  Leidenschaft  zu  Mrs.  Barr}^"  Boron's 
is  a  tragedy  without  love  —  he  prided  himself  on  the  fact.  In 
Otway's  love  is  the  leading  motiv.  Finally,  as  he  himself  said, 
Byron  "entered  more  into  the  local  spirit  of  it."  For  Otway's 
vague  and  conventional  allusions  to  St.  Mark's,  the  Rialto,  the 
Ducal  Palace,  Byron  substitutes  direct  and  minute  references 
to  particular  places,  local  customs,  traditions,  fashions,  and 
people.  "Of  the  play  they  may  say  what  they  please,  but  not 
so  of  my  costume  and  dram,  pers.,  they  having  been  real 
existences"  (LJ.  V,  96). 

In  Our  Mutual  Friend  Dickens  contrives  that  the  odour 
of  the  slime  and  scum  of  the  London  docks  shall  never  quite 
be  absent  from  our  nostrils.  A  like  effect,  in  greater  degree, 
is   produced    in    Measure   for   Measure,    where    one    is    always 


*  Cf.  Mayne,  11,  161.     Cf.  also,  "Our  hatred  of  that  now  empty  Oyster 
shell  without  its  pearl  —  Venice"  (LJ.  IV,  370). 

*  Cf.  the  Prologue,  p.  293. 

'  The  character  of  Antonio  is  a  disgraceful  satire  upon  the  great  Earl 
of  Shaftesbury. 


92  Chapter  Five. 

conscious  of  the  reek  and  stench  of  Vienna.  A  third  instance 
of  this  may  be  given.  Towards  the  close  of  Arden  of  Faversham 
(IV,  ii,  35)  Master  Arden  exclaims,  "1  am  almost  stifled  in  this 
fog!"  and  the  reader  thinks,  not  of  the  sea-mist  blowing  in 
upon  Kent,  but  of  that  moral  fog  of  sordid  gloom  and  death 
that  fi'om  the  commencement  of  the  play  has  been  slowly 
enveloping  the  doomed  man.  To  obtain  such  effects  as  these 
is  indeed  to  create  an  atmosphere  in  a  work  of  the  imagination. 
B3Ton  accomplishes  this  with  singular  success  in  Marino 
Faliero.  Throughout  the  play  there  is  the  impression  of  the 
remorseless  power  of  a  corrupt  aristocracy.  The  conflict  is 
between  the  patricians  and  the  people,  with  all  right  and  justice 
on  the  side  of  the  oppressed  lower  classes.  This  keynote  is 
struck  at  the  commencement  of  the  play. 

^'■Battista:  Doubtless  'twas 

Foul  scorn  in  Steno  to  offend  so  grossly. 
Pietro:      Aye,  if  a  poor  man:  Steno's  a  patrician. 

Young,  galliard,  gay,  and  haughty. 
Battisia:  Then  you  think 

He  will  not  be  judged  hardly? 
Pietro:  'Twere  enough 

He  be  judged  justly"  (I,  i,  18  f.) 

Difference  in  rank  means  difference  in  justice  in  Venice.  There 
is  an  essential  flaw  in  the  administration  of  the  state.  Again 
and  again  this  idea  is  insisted  upon.  There  is  an  inward 
rottenness,  a  canker  eating  the  heart  out  of  the  ancient  insti- 
tutions of  Venice.  When  Bertuccio,  sounding  Faliero  as  to 
the  conspiracy,  asks  him,  "Wouldst  thou  be  sovereign  lord  of 
Venice?"  "Aye,"  the  Doge  answers, 

"If  that  the  people  shared  that  sovereignty. 

So  that  nor  they  nor  I  were  further  slaves 

Of  this  o'ergrown  aristocratic  Hydra, 

The  poisonous  heads  of  whose  envenomed  body 

Have  breathed  a  pestilence  upon  us  all"  (I,  ii,  418  f.) 

The  Doge  cannot  claim  the  duty  of  the  Senate  (II,  i,  157);  he 
is  a  mere  puppet  who  scarce  can  obtain  right  for  himself  (II, 
ii,  32).     Musing  over  Venice  he  exclaims: 

"Thou  must  be  cleansed  of  the  black  blood  which  makes  thee 
A  lazar-house  of  tyranny"  (11,  i,  8f.), 


The  Two  Venetian  Plays.  93 

these  "plague  spots,"  this  "Patrician  pestilence,"  must  be 
done  away.  It  is  no  matter  of  pride  and  vice  in  certain 
individuals ; 

"It  is  not 
Their  numbers,  be  it  tens  or  thousands,  l)ut 
The  spirit  of  this  Aristocracy 
Which  must  be  rooted  out"  (III,  ii,  38  f.) 

"Fatal  poison  to  the  springs  of  Life"  is  in  "the  present  insti- 
tutes of  Venice"  (III,  ii,  316  f.)  Thus,  when  the  traitor  Bertram 
comes  to  Lioni,  the  latter  believes  that  he  seeks  shelter  for 
some  crime,  and  says: 

"So  that  thou  hast  not 
Spilt  noble  blood,  I  guarantee  thy  safety"  (IV,  i,  144  f.) 

Contrast  this  with  the  certainty  expressed  by  Pietro  in  the 
first  scene  that  had  Steno  been  a  plebian  he  would  have  been 
condemned. 

The  theme  is  the  overthrow  of  the  aristocratic  oppressors 
of  the  people.  The  miserable  condition  of  Venice  under  Austrian 
domination  greatly  influenced  BjTon  in  this  conception.  It  is 
almost  superfluous  to  recall  how  constantly  the  celebration  of 
political  libert}'  recurs  in  Byron's  verse.  From  the  da3'S  of  the 
first  canto  of  Childe  Harold  to  the  end  of  Don  Juan  the  note 
is  constantly  struck. 

"Revolution 
Alone  can  save  the  earth  from  heU's  pollution."  ^ 

He  believes  it  a  noble  task  "from  foreign  yoke  to  free  the 
helpless  native,"^  but  after  all,  "who  would  be  free  themselves 
must  strike  the  blow"* —  an  idea  reaffirmed  long  after  in  "The 
Isles  of  Greece": 

"In  native  swords  and  native  ranks, 

The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells"  (stanza  14). 

He  is  confident  in  the  ultimate  outcome.  The  mob  are  tired  of 
imitating  Job,  and  "the  people  by  and  by  will  be  the  stronger."* 
There  is  never  a  sign  of  despair  or  of  any  tendency  to  subside 
into  placid  acceptance. 


»  Don  Juan  VIII,  51. 
"-  Ihid.  XIII,  10. 
^  ChLlde  Harold  II,  76. 
*  Don  Juan  VIII.  50. 


94  Chapter  Five. 

"Yet,  Freedom!  yet  thy  banner,  torn  but  flying, 
Streams  like  the  thunder-storm  against  the  wind."* 

Finally,  and  with  especial  reference  to  Marino  Faliero,  note 
two  passages  from  his  journal,  written  in  1821.  "Onward!  — 
it  is  now  the  time  to  act,  and  what  signifies  self,  if  a  single 
spark  of  that  which  would  be  worth}'  of  the  past  can  be 
bequeathed  unquenchedly  to  the  future?  It  is  not  one  man, 
nor  a  million,  but  the  spirit  of  Uberty  which  must  be  spread. 
The  waves  which  dash  upon  the  shore  are,  one  by  one,  broken, 
but  yet  the  ocean  conquers,  nevertheless  ...  In  like  manner, 
whatever  the  sacrifice  of  individuals,  the  great  cause  will 
gather  strength,  sweep  down  what  is  rugged,  and  fertilise  .  .  . 
what  is  cultivable"  (LJ.  V,  163  f.)  "It  is  no  great  matter,  supposing 
that  Italy  could  be  liberated,  who  or  what  is  sacrificed.  It  is 
a  grand  object  —  the  very  poetry  of  politics"  (LJ.  V,  205). 

But  that  clear  vision  so  chai'acteristic  of  Byron  forces  him 
to  see  the  opposite  side  of  the  picture.  Though  he  teaches 
the  very  stones  "to  rise  against  earth's  tyrants,"*  though  an 
absolute  autocrat  is  much  worse  than  a  barbarian,*  he  warns 
men  against  the  dangers  of  the  opposite  extreme. 

"It  is  not  that  I  adulate  the  people: 

Without  me^  there  are  demagogues  enough  .  .  . 

I  wish  men  to  be  free, 

As  much  from  mobs  as  kings  —  from  you  as  me."* 

And  again  he  speaks  of  — 

"The  most  infernal  of  aU  evils  here. 

The  sway  of  petty  tyrants  in  a  state; 

For  such  sway  is  not  limited  to  kings. 

And  demagogues  yield  to  them  but  in  date 

As  swept  off  sooner."^ 
The  object  of  their  conspiracy  is  thus  stated  b}-  Faliero: 

"You  are  met 

To  overthrow  this  Monster  of  a  state, 

This  mockery  of  a  Government,  this  spectre. 


»  Childe  Harold  IV,  98.     Cf.  — 

"The  thunder  comes 
Sullen  against  the  wind"  (Keats,  Otho  the  Great  II,  i,  57). 
■-'  Don  Juan  VIII,  135. 
^  Ibid.  IX,  23. 
*  Ibid.  IX,  25. 
^  The  Prophecy  of  Dante  IV,  117  f. 


The  Two  Venetian  Plays.  95 

Which  must  be  exorcised  with  blood  —  and  then 
We  will  renew  the  times  of  Truth  and  Justice, 
Condensing  in  a  fair  free  commonwealth 
Not  rash  equality  but  equal  rights"  (III,  ii,  164- f.) 


This  last  Une  is  significant.  It  shows,  in  contrast  to  Shelley's 
Utopian  dream  of  man  "tribeless  and  nationless,"  how  steadily 
Byron  held  to  the  fact.  Such  passages  show  Byron's  greatness 
as  a  moral  force  and  a  true  leader.  There  are  in  them  no 
emotional  dreams.  Shunning  the  bugbear  of  monarchy,  he 
does  not  lose  himself  in  the  mists  of  popular  theories.  He  is 
practical. 

The  Doge,  Marino  Faliero,  is  almost  Byron's  ideal  of  a 
hero.  History  (or  legend)  records  him  as  being  proud,  revenge- 
ful, jealous;  but  of  history  Byron  selects  only  those  facts 
that  accord  with  his  conception.'  The  aristocratic  spirit,  the 
innate  feeling  of  caste,  of  which  I  have  already  spoken,  is 
strong  in  FaUero.  Note  the  lines  (HI,  ii,  319f.)  in  which  he 
contrasts  his  position  with  that  of  his  fellow-conspirators.  In- 
voluntarily he  slu'inks  from  his  accomplices,  as  when  Galendaro 
cries  "Be  our  general  and  chief,"  and  he  answers: 

"Chief!  —  general!  —  I  was  general  at  Zara, 

And  chief  in  Rhodes  and  Cyprus,  prince  in  Venice: 

I  cannot  stoop  —  that  is,  I  am  not  fit 

To  lead  a  band  of  —  patriots"  (HI,  ii,  217  f.)' 

With  this  aristocratic  pride  there  is  mingled  an  over-sensitive 
honor  and  a  habit  of  command  (II,  ii,  162f.)  But  he  is  no 
tyrant  (III,  ii,  584  f.)  From  the  moment  when,  hurrying  from 
Rome  to  take  up  the  reins  of  office,  he  first  experienced  the 
thwarting,  baffling  power  of  the  Senate  (III,  ii,  346  f.),  the  germ 
of  revolt  had  been  within  him.  Before  Steno's  insult  there 
had  been  wrong  enough  and  to  spare. 

"Begirt  with  spies  for  guards  —  with  robes  for  power  — 

With  pomp  for  freedom  —  gaolers  for  a  council  — 

Inquisitors  for  friends  —  and  hell  for  life. 

I  had  one  only  fount  of  quiet  left, 

And  that  they  poisoned.     My  pure  household  gods 

Were  shiver'd  on  my  hearth"*  (III,  ii,  358  f.) 

*  Cf.  Byron's  alteration  of  the  traditional  motive  of  the  murder  in  Cain. 

-  Cf .  also  III,  i,  65  f.  and  99  f . 

^  The  parallel  passages   cited  by  E.  H.  Coleridge  (P.  IV,  404)  are  not 


96  Chapter  Five. 

But  it  is  not  mere  private  wrongs  that  move  him. 

"A  spark  creates  the  flame  —  'tis  the  last  drop 
Which  makes  the  cup  run  o'er,  and  mine  was  full 
Already"'  (V,  i,  245 f.) 

Steno  furnishes  but  the  final  provocation; 

"his  offence 
Was  a  mere  ebullition  of  the  vice, 
The  general  corruption  generated 
By  the  foul  Aristocracy"  (III,  ii  402  f.) 

He  embodies  all  that  the  Doge  has  to  contend  with  in  Venice. 
He  is  a  concrete  instance  of  the  foulness,  injustice,  and  rank, 
weedy  growth  of  the  Venetian  aristocracy.  He  resolves  the 
abstract  mood  into  a  situation  capable  of  dramatic  treatment." 
But  Byron,  who  admits  no  absolute  villain  in  his  plaj's,  gives 
him  grace  at  least  to  express  penitence  and  implore  pardon 
(V,  i,  398  f.) 

Faliero  feels  that  many  of  his  wrongs  have  come  upon 
him  through  his  pity  for  the  people  (HI,  ii,  195).  Even  in 
moments  of  passion  he  puts  the  public  cause  before  his  private 
injuries."     Bertuccio  says: 

"His  mind  is  liberal. 
He  sees  and  feels  the  people  are  oppressed. 
And  shares  their  sufferings"  (H,  ii,  174f.) 

Hence  the  singular  Elttraction  of  his  character  for  Byron:  an 
aristocrat,  devoted  to  the  cause  of  the  people.*  He  barkens 
to  the  call  of  the  higher  loyalty,  and  submission  to  that  call 
brings  with  it  its  reward. 

"They  never  fail  who  die 
In  a  great  cause:  the  block  may  soak  their  gore; 
Their  heads  may  sodden  in  the  sun;  their  limbs 

very  apt.  Cf.  therefore:   "The  desolation  piled  upon  me,  when  I  stood  alone 
upon  my  hearth,  with  my  household  gods  shivered  around  me"  (LJ.  IV,  262). 
"Standing  alone  besides  his  desolate  hearth, 
Where  all  his  household  gods  lay  shivered  round  him." 

{Don  Juan  I,  86,  and  cf.  Ill,  51). 
^  In  Byron's  Reply  to  Blackwood's  Edinburgh  Magazine   (LJ.  IV, 
477)  occur  almost  the  same  words:  "It  is  the  last  drop  which  makes  the  cup 
run  over,  and  mine  was  already  full." 

-  Cf.  the  character  of  Astarte  in  Manfred. 

■■^  Cf.  among  other  places,  I,  ii,  192  and  :U6f.;  II,  i,  406  f.;  Ill,  i,  45  f. 

*  Cf.  especially  III,  ii,  437  f.  and  V,  iii,  16  f. 


The  Two  Venetian  Plays.  97 

Be  strung  to  city  gates  and  castle  walls  — 
But  still  their  spirit  walks  abroad.     Though  years 
Elapse,  and  others  share  as  dark  a  doom, 
They  but  augment  the  deej)  and  sweeping  thoughts 
Which  overpower  all  others,  and  conduct 
The  world  at  last  to  freedom"  (11,  ii,  98  f.) 
Noble    and    impressive    words;    not    those    of   a   jaded    egoist, 
surely!    The  moral  victory  is  won  long  before  material  success 
or  failure.     The   choice  of  the  nobler  and  manlier  part  is  the 
real  victor3^ 

"Is  it  the  pain  of  blows,  or  shame  of  blows, 
That  makes  such  deadly  to  the  sense  of  man?" 

(II,  i,  246f.) 
Byron  himself  answers  Faliero's  question  — 

"'Tis  the  cause  makes  all, 
Degrades  or  hallows  courage  in  its  fall."' 
Here  again  is  the  Byronic  exaltation  of  mind  over  matter,    of 
spirit   over   external    circumstance,    that    essential   subjectivity 
always  apparent  in  Byron's  attitude  towards  life.     Faliero,  on 
the  brink  of  eternity,  declares: 

"We'll  meet  it 
As  men  whose  triumph  is  not  in  success, 
But  who  can  make  their  own  minds  all  in  all 
Equal  to  every  fortune""  (IV,  i,  276 f.) 

Of  the  minor  characters  in  the  play  the  most  notable  are 
Angiola  and  Bertram.  The  conspirators  and  the  senators  are 
conventional  types,  and  I  have  already  spoken  of  Steno. 

In  many  respects  Angiola  is  the  superior  of  her  husband. 
He  is  drawn  into  the  plot  in  a  moment  of  passion ;  Steno  can 
provoke  in  her  only  a  scornful  smile.  Her  honor  is  above  the 
need  of  commendation  from  men.     She  has  — 

"the  sense 
Of  virtue,  looking  not  to  what  is  called 
A  good  name  for  reward,  but  to  itself"  (V,  i,  417  f.) 
Early  in  the   play  she  teUs  Faliero   that  there   is  no  need  of 
stripes  and  imprisonment  for  Steno: 

"There  seems  to  be  enough  in  the  conviction 
Of  a  patrician  guilty  of  a  falsehood: 


^ 


»  The  Island  IV,  261  f. 

"  Of.  Lucifer's  last  words  to  Cain,  II,  ii,  403  f. 
Hesperia,  B.  3. 


98  Chapter  Five. 

All  other  punishments  were  light  unto 
His  loss  of  honour"  (II,  i,  230  f.) 

Her  last  words  of  Steno  are: 

"We  leave  him  to  himself,  that  lowest  depth 

Of  human  baseness"  (V,  i,  457  f.) 
These  are  clear  enunciations  of  the  Categorical  Imperative.  Is 
it  a  low  conception  of  woman  that  imagines  her  as  depending 
upon  so  loft}^  a  moral  code?  She  is  brave  and  firm;  to  the 
last  she  supports  her  husband  and  presents  an  unwavering 
fi'ont  to  his  accusers.  "What  more  pure  and  lofty  than  this 
character  of  Angiola  .  .  .?"  asks  Bulwer.^  "I  know  not  in 
the  circle  of  Shakespeare's  women  one  more  true,  not  only  to 
nature  —  that  is  a  slight  merit  —  but  to  the  highest  and  rarest 
order  of  nature." 

Lastly,  of  Bertram.  Byron  palliates  his  treachery.  In  Act  II, 
Scene  ii,  two  of  the  conspirators  discuss  their  plans  together. 
Galendaro  doubts  the  "hesitating  softness"  of  Bertram  (1.  68), 
but  admits  that  he  fears  "less  treachery  than  weakness"  (1.  78). 
From  this  conversation  the  reader  is  prepared  for  Bertram's 
treachery.  His  hesitation  is  displayed  when  he  reports  to  Ga- 
lendaro that  he  has  not  j^et  completed  the  number  in  his 
company  (III,  ii,  6f.)  and  a  moment  later  he  asks  that  some 
of  the  Senators  may  be  spared  in  the  general  slaughter  (1.  22  f.) 
Bertram  admits  his  "natural  weakness,"  his  shrinking  from 
"indiscriminate  murder"  (1.  64  f.)  The  rest  of  the  scene  passes 
without  further  reference  to  possible  treachery.  But  the  reader 
is  prepared  for  what  follows.  Bertram  reveals  the  plot  to 
Lioni,  having  vainly  tried  to  persuade  him  to  remain  at  home 
on  the  following  day.  Motives  of  affection  and  gratitude  force 
this  treachery  upon  him  (IV,  i,  198  f.),  and  thus  mitigate  in  a 
measure  the  shame  of  the  betrayal  of  his  friends.  Bertram  is 
unequal  to  the  test  of  the  higher  loyalty;  private  obligations 
and  friendship  weigh  more  with  him  than  the  public  weal. 

"Such  ties  are  not 
For  those  who  are  called  to  the  high  destinies 
Which  purify  corrupted  commonwealths; 
We  must  forget  all  feelings  save  the  one, 
We  must  resign  all  passions  save  our  purpose, 


*  England  and  the  Enylish  II,  7();  cited  by  Schiff,  p.  28. 


Tho  Two  Venetian  Plays.  99 

We  must  beliold  no  object  save  our  countiy, 

And  oiil}'  look  on  Death  as  beautiful, 

So  that  the  sacrifice  ascend  to  Heaven, 

And  draw  down  Freedom  on  her  evermore"  (II,  ii,84f.) 

The  Two  Foscari, 

Byron's  second  Venetian  play  is  of  much  less  importance 
and  merit  than  Marino  Fal'ipro  of  the  themes  of  which  play  it 
is  largely  a  re-working.  It  was  begun,  according  to  E.  H.  Cole- 
ridge (P.  V,  115),  on  June  12,  and  finished  on  July  9,  1821/ 
On  July  14  Byron  sent  the  new  pla}'  to  Murray  (TJ.  V,  822). 
"The  argument  .  .  .  Foscolo  or  Hobhouse  can  explain  to  yon: 
or  you  will  find  it  at  length  in  P.  Daru's  histor}'  of  Venice: 
also,  more  briefl}^  in  Sismondi's  LB.'  An  outline  of  it  is  in 
the  Pleasures  of  Mentor i/  also."  This  last  passage  is  quoted  in 
a  note  In^  Mr.  Prothero.*  From  it  and  the  note  which  Rogers 
attached  to  it  (p.  94)  Byron  prolDabl}-  derived  his  first  know- 
ledge of  the  story.  His  facts  he  got  from  Daru's  Histoire  de 
la  Bepublique  de  Venise  (1821,  H,  520  f.)  and  from  Sismondi's 
Histoire  des  Bepuhliques  .  .  .  dn  Moyen  Aye  (1815,  X,  36  f.) 
He  does  not  seem  to  have  gone  to  original  "authorities"  as 
much  as  he  had  done  during  the  com])osition  of  Marino  Faliero. 
Schiff  (p.  49  f.)  gives  a  considerable  number  of  close  parallels 
between  Daru's  narrative  and  The  Two  Foscari. 

The  sense  of  civic  corruption,  so  strong  in  Marino  Faliero, 
reappears  in  The  Tiro  Foscari,  but  it  takes  slightlj'  different 
shape.  Tn  the  earlier  play  the  condition  of  the  people  had 
been  considered  desperate,  but  not  hopeless.  Now,  the  im- 
pression is  of  a  helpless  and  chaotic  mob: 

"There's  no  people,  you  well  know  it, 
Else  3'ou  dare  not  deal  thus  b}^  them  or  me. 
There  is  a  'popidace,  perhaps,  whose  looks 


'  Mr.  Coleridge  does  not  state  where  he  finds  these  exact  dates:  the 
MS.  is  apparently  undated.  Moreover,  on  July  9  Byron  had  only  "nearly 
completed  the  tragedy  on  the  Foscaris"  (LJ.  V,  322). 

2  The  initials  apparently  stand  for  "Italian  Republic';  Mr.  Prothero 
offers  no  explanation  of  them,  nor  is  the  reference  included  among  the  "Books 
read  by  Byron"  in  the  index  to  LJ. 

*  The  lines  are  Part  I,  11.  225  f.  Cf.  Rogers'  later  and  longer  version 
of  the  story,  in  Italy,  section  19. 

7* 


100  Chapter  Five. 

May  shame  you;  but  they  dare  not  groan  nor  curse  you, 
Save  with  then-  hearts  and  eyes"  (V,  i,  257  f.) 

It  is  not  merely  that  the  aristocrac}'^  have  become  more  powerful. 
Their  power  has  become  concentrated  in  the  "Ten,"  who  re- 
present and  control  the  state.  The  state  is  felt  to  be  possessed 
of  a  mystery,  power,  and  personality.  Again  and  again  there 
are  references  to  the  duties  of  citizenship.  The  individual  is 
as  nothing  in  comparison  with  the  commonwealth. 

"In  such  a  state 
An  individual,  be  he  richest  of 
Such  rank  as  is  permitted,  or  the  meanest, 
Without  a  name,  is  alike  nothing,  when 
The  policy,  irrevocably  tending 
To  one  great  end,  must  be  maintained  in  vigour" 

(II,  i,  408  f.) 

From  this  sense  of  the  personality  of  the  state  there  result 
two  things.  On  the  one  hand  there  is  gross  abuse  of  power 
by  those  who,  shrouded  in  the  mystery  of  the  commonwealth, 
are  the  real  governors.  On  the  other  there  is  implicit  obe- 
dience and  read}^  sacrifice  on  the  part  of  citizens.  When 
Marina,  overwrought  by  the  sight  of  her  husband's  sufferings, 
says : 

"Would  he 
But  think  so,  to  my  mind  the  happiest  doom. 
Not  he  alone,  but  aU  who  dwell  here,  could 
Desire,  were  to  escape  from  such  a  land"  (II,  i,  272  f.), 

the  Doge  replies,  ^'That  is  not  a  Venetian  thought,  my  daughter." 
This  furnishes  a  hint  towards  the  understanding  of  Jacopo 
Foscari's  overmastering  love  of  Venice.  To  Medwin  (p.  117) 
Byron  remarked,  "That  Faliero  should,  for  a  slight  to  a  woman, 
become  a  traitor  to  his  country  and  conspire  to  massacre  all 
his  fellow-nobles,  and  that  the  young  Foscari  should  have  a 
sickly  affection  for  his  city,  were  no  inventions  of  mine.  I 
painted  the  men  as  I  found  them,  as  they  were,  —  not  as  the 
critics  would  have  them.  I  took  the  stories  as  they  were  handed 
down;  and  if  human  nature  is  not  the  same  in  one  country 
as  it  is  in  another,  am  I  to  blame?  But  no  painting,  however 
highly  coloured,  can  give  an  idea  of  the  intensity  of  a  Vene- 
tian's affection  for  his  native  city."     The  rej)!}'  of  the  Doge, 


The  Two  Venetian  flays.  [01 

quoted  above,  shows  that  such  a  love  was  not  uncommon.  In 
Jacopo's  case  it  is  mingled  with  boyish  associations  and  recol- 
lections; his  soul  is  social  (III,  i,  109)  and  his  mind  "sinks  in 
solitude."  Away  tVom  \'enice  he  yearns  for  her,'  and  when 
asked,  "Can  you  so  much  love  the  soil  which  iiates  you?"  he 
answers: 

"The  soil!  —  Oh  no!  it  is  the  seed  of  the  soil 

Which  persecutes  me:  but  my  native  earth 

Will  take  me  as  a  mother  to  her  arms"  (I,  i,  140  f.) 

Nevertheless  Byron  hardlj'^  succeeds  in  making  the  character 
of  the  younger  Foscari  convincing. 

Just  as  the  state  exacts  love  from  the  son,  so  she  exacts 
duty  fi'om  the  father.  Once  more  Byron  has  a  study  of  the 
choice  of  loyalties.  The  Doge  chooses  the  higher,  and  presides 
at  the  trial  and  torture  of  his  son.  A  line  in  Faris'ma  (1.  406) 
—  "To  see  the  son  fall  by  the  doom  of  the  Father"  —  had 
already  touched  on  this  confhct.  The  theme  is  of  course  an 
old  one  —  as  old  as  the  Roman  Republic;  but  that  Byron 
chose  such  a  situation  for  dramatic  treatment  and  elaborated 
it  with  care  is  proof  of  the  importance  which  he  attached  to 
this  doctrine  of  loyalty  to  the  highest  claims  upon  our  alle- 
giance. 

Over  the  lives  of  these  two  men  the  state  holds  absolute 
sway.  This  vague,  brooding  personality  is  felt  to  be  full  of 
mystery : 

"Men  know  as  little 
Of  the  state's  real  acts  as  of  the  grave's 
Unfathom'd  mysteries"  (I,  i,  184  f.) 

To  this  mood  TiOredano  gives  concrete  expression.  He  is  the 
embodiment  of  the  inexorable  injustice  of  the  Venetian  aristo- 
cracy. He  has  its  pride  of  place,  its  determination,  its  pitiless 
grinding  of  the  individual.  His  moving  passions  are  hatred 
and  revenge.     The   other   men   of  the   play  are  but  shadows. 


*  In  Foscari's  words,  "That  malady  Which  calls  up  green  and  native 
fields  to  view"  (III,  i,  172),  there  is  a  reference  to  the  Falstaffian  mutiv, 
"babbling  of  green  fields."  Compare  The  Island  II,  276;  Don  Juan  XVI,  46 
Coleridge's  Osor/'o  IV,  21.Sf.;  Keats's  Letters,  ed.  H.  B.  Forman,  p.  461.  I  give 
these  parallels  as  the  expression  of  this  ''longing  lingering  look  behind  '  is 
not  very  frequent  in  literature. 


102  Chapter  Five. 

Byron  has  little  of  the  Shakespearean  ability  to  put  individual- 
ity into  even  minor  characters. 

Marina  should  be  grouped  with  Angiola  and  Myrrha.  She 
has  that  "tender  fierceness  of  the  dove"*  which  will  fight  to 
shield  her  mate.  She  is  no  ignoble  creature,  for  she  dares  defy 
the  assembled  patricians,  the  enemies  of  her  family.  But  her 
outlook  is  limited;  she  has  no  conception  of  that  higher  loyalty, 
that  wider  view,  which  is  the  Doge's  guiding  motive.  Her 
husband  and  children  are  home  and  country  (V,  i,  95);  as  Adah 
with  Gain  did  not  much  regret  the  loss  of  Eden,  so  with  Ja- 
copo  Foscari  Marina  could  live  in  happiness  far  from  Venice. 
Nevertheless  some  of  the  noblest  sentiments  of  the  play  come 
from  her  lips.  Like  Angiola,  she  has  the  proud  consciousness 
of  innocence,  and  that  suffices  her.  Moral  superiority  is  the 
feeling  on  which  she  builds  her  hopes  and  sets  her  rest.  Here 
she  rises  to  a  height  to  which  her  father  and  husband  cannot 
attain.     Thus,  she  tells  Loredano: 

**You  are  his  equal,  as 
You  think;  but  that  you  are  not,  nor  would  be, 
Were  he  a  peasant"  (H,  i,  290  f.) 

Facing  the  enemy  of  their  house  in  her  husband's  dungeon, 
when  Foscari  says  that  she  is  of  a  house  as  noble  as  that  of 
Loredano,  she  exclaims  "Nobler!"  "How  nobler?"  asks  Lore- 
dano. "As  more  generous!"  is  her  reply  (IH,  i,  289 f.)  As  she 
sees  that  the  soul  is  superior  to  position  in  life,  so  she  feels 
that  the  mind  should  rise  above  the  petty  woes  that  afflict  the 
body.  In  the  dungeon  Foscari  tells  her  that  he  stiU  beheves 
his  life  may  be  taken: 

*'Mar.:  Thy  life  is  safe. 

Fos.:      And  liberty? 

Mar.:  The  mind  should  make  its  own." 

(HI,  i,  83f.) 

This  answer  is  not  unworthy  of  comparison  with  that  of  Isa- 
bel to  Claudio:  "Death  is  a  fearful  thing"  —  "And  shamed 
life  a  hateful!" 

The  technical   shortcomings  of  The   Tivo  Foscari  —  and 
they   are   most  serious  —  have  been   dealt  with  in  an  earlier 


Childe  Harold  I,  57. 


Sardanapalus.  JOB 

chapter.  The  memorable  thing  about  the  piece  is  that  it  puts 
into  dramatic  form  the  great  Byronic  theme  of  intellectual 
freedom.     Jacopo  Foscai'i  could  learn  from  Tasso: 

"I  stoop  not  to  despair; 
For  I  have  battled  with  mine  agony, 
And  made  me  wings  wherewith  to  overfly 
The  narrow  circus  of  my  dungeon  wall."* 

In  the  Sonnet  on  Chillon  (P.  IV,  7)  B^ron  invokes  the 

"Eternal  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind! 
Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty!"" 


Chapter  Six. 
Sardanapalus. 

There  are  two  circumstances  in  Byron's  life  that  greatly 
influenced  the  composition  of  Sardanapalus.  The  jear  1818, 
with  all  its  splendid  results  in  poetry,  had  been  morall}'  the 
lowest  in  Byron's  career.  His  dissolute,  reckless  life  in  Venice 
was  partlj'  a  reaction  from  Shelley's  influence  in  Switzerland, 
parth'  his  manner  of  remonstrance  against  hypocritical  cant, 
partly  a  way  of  laughing  that  he  might  not  weep.  The  in- 
evitable reaction  fi'om  this  sort  of  thing  was  furnished  by  the 
liaison  wath  the  Countess  Guiccioli  to  whom  Byron  was  intro- 
duced in  April,  1819.  From  June  till  the  autumn  Byron  was 
with  her  constantly.    A  separation  resulted  in  the  serious  illness 

1  The  Lament  of  Tasso,  11.  20  f. 

-  A  note  may  be  added  on  Miss  Mitford's  Foscari  which,  though  not 
performed  till  1826,  was  composed  before  the  publication  of  TJie  Two  Fos- 
cari. The  coincidence  is  of  interest.  Foscari  {Cumberland's  British 
Theatre  XXXVIII)  is  technically  a  far  better  composition  than  Byron's  piece. 
It  is  a  romantic  drama,  and  not  following  the  rules,  has  the  advantage  of 
beginning  the  action  at  an  earlier  stage  of  the  story,  with  consequent  clear- 
ness of  motivation.  It  disregards  history  recklessly.  In  place  of  a  younger 
Foscari  accused  of  treason  we  have  one  charged  with  the  murder  of  his 
sweetheart's  father.  In  place  of  Loredano  moved  by  the  desire  for  venge- 
ance, we  have  Erizzo,  moved  by  low  ambition  and  envy  of  Foscari.  Both 
father  and  son  are  entirely  guiltless  of  wrong-doing.  The  piece  is  rather 
interesting,  but  tame  and  quite  lacking  in  poetry  and  the  higher  reaches  <>f 
tragic  feeling. 


104  Chapter  Six. 

of  the  Countess,  and  the  onlj-  cure  was  to  send  for  Byron, 
who  was  established  as  a  permanent  member  of  the  Count's 
family.  Meanwhile  he  had  become  interested  in  the  Carbo- 
neria',  and  the  Count's  house  in  Ravenna  became  a  centre  of 
revolutionists.  This,  probably,  rather  than  outraged  feelings, 
made  him  insist  upon  a  separation,  which  was  gi-anted  by  the 
Pope  in  June,  1820.  La  Guiccioli  now  retired  to  her  father's 
house,  where  Byron  visited  her,  though  he  continued  to  hve 
at  the  Palazzo  Guiccioli!  In  the  autumn  of  1821  the  Gambas 
were  exiled  from  papal  territory  and  Byron  followed  his  lady 
to  Pisa,  where  in  November,  1821  they  took  up  their  abode 
in  the  Palazzo  Lanfi^anchi.  Here  they  remained  until  after 
Shelley's  death,  when,  partly  in  consequence  of  that  catastrophe 
and  partly  to  escape  the  anno3^ance  of  constant  surveillance 
by  the  Tuscan  police,  they  moved  to  a  villa  near  Genoa,  where 
they  remained  till  Byron's  departure  for  the  East  in  July,  1823. 
Early  in  1821,  in  the  midst  of  his  liaison  and  of  pubhc 
events  of  the  keenest  interest,  Byron  began  Sardanapalus. 
Jeaffreson  exclaims  on  the  difficulty  "to  account  for  an  in- 
dustry so  incessant  and  astoundingly  prolific  under  circum- 
stances so  unfavourable  to  meditation  and  creative  effort."* 
For  Sardanajmhis  was  but  one  of  many  Hterary  projects  of 
these  days.     In  Don_Juan(ll,  207)  occur  the  lines: 

'"Eat,  drink,  and  love,  what  can  the  rest  avad  us?' 

So  said  the  royal  sage  Sardanapalus." 
This  had  been  published  in  1819.  In  his  Beply  to  Blackwood's 
Edinburgh  Magazine  (LJ.  IV,  474  f.),  written  at  Ravenna,  March 
15,  1820,  refuting  the  charge  of  certain  vices,  he  says,  "With 
regard  to  the  first  sentence,  I  shall  content  myself  with  observ- 
ing that  it  appears  to  have  been  composed  for  Sardanapalus, 
Tiberius,  the  Regent  Duke  of  Orleans,  or  Louis  XV,"  etc. 
These  two  passages  show  that  the  stor}^  of  the  luxurious  king 
was  in  his  mind.  The  first  reference  to  the  play  is  found  in 
Byron's  diary  for  January  13,  1821  (LJ.  V,  172).  "Sketched 
the  outline  and  Drams.  Pers.  of  an  intended  tragedy  of  Sarda- 
napalus, which  I  have  for  some  time  meditated.  Took  the 
names  from  Diodorus  Siculus,  (I  know  the  history  of  Sardana- 

^  See  The  Cambridge  Modern  History,  New  York,  Macmillan,  X,  111  . 
2  J.  C.  Jeaffreson,  The  Real  Lord  Byron.  1883,  II,  150. 


Sardanapalus.  105 

palus,  and  have  known  it  since  I  was  twelve  years  old,)  and 
read  over  a  passage  in  the  ninth  vol.  octavo  of  Mitt'ord's 
Greece,  where  he  rather  vindicates  the  memory  of  this  last 
of  the  Assyrians'  ...  1  carried  Teresa  the  Italian  tians- 
lation  of  Grillparzer's  Sappho,  which  she  promises  to  read. 
She  quarrelled  with  me  because  I  said  that  love  was  not  the 
loftiest  theme  for  true  tragedy;  and,  having  the  advantage  of 
her  native  language,  and  natural  female  eloquence,  she  over- 
came my  fewer  arguments.  1  believe  she  was  right.  I  must 
put  more  love  into  Sardanapalus  than  I  intended.  1  speak,  of 
course,  if  the  tunes  will  allow  me  leisure."  Following  this 
entry  there  are  many  references  to  the  growth  of  the  new 
tragedy,  all  summed  up  in  the  note  at  the  end  of  the  MS.  of 
Sardanapalus  (P.  V,  112):  "Ravenne,  May  27^^-  1821.  Mem. 
—  I  began  the  drama  on  the  13'^  of  January,  1821,  and 
continued  the  two  first  acts  very  slowly  and  at  long  intervals. 
The  three  last  acts  were  written  since  the  13*'"  of  May,  1821 
(this  present  month,  that  is  to  say  in  a  fortnight)."  The  play  was 
published  with  Cain  and  The  Ttvo  Foscari,  December  19,  1821. 

The  sources  of  Sardanapalus  present  no  problem.  A  fore- 
word to  the  play  (P.  V,  11),  reads,  "In  this  tragedy  it  has  been 
my  intention  to  follow  the  account  of  Diodorus  Sici^lus;  reduc- 
ing it,  however,  to  such  dramatic  regularity  as  I  best  could, 
and  trying  to  approach  the  unities."  In  the  second  book  of 
the  Bibliothecae  Historicae  is  found  the  story  of  the  effeminate, 
slothful,  and  debauched  king,  who,  driven  to  arms  by  rebellion, 
committed  suicide  after  exhausting  all  means  of  resistance.  The 
pseudo-historical  character  of  Sardanapalus  does  not  concern 
us,  and  E.  H.  Coleridge  (P.  V,  3f.)  gives  all  requisite  informa- 
tion on  the  subject. 

Of  Byron's  "regular"  dramas  Sardanapalus  is  certainly 
the  greatest.  It  stands  somewhat  apart  from  the  Venetian 
plays  in  that  the  historical  element  is  shghter.  Roden  Noel 
says  it  "seems  to  me  one  of  our  really  excellent  plays."  ^ 
Brandes'  is   of  the   same   opinion.     George  Finley,   who   saw 


*  E.  H.  Coleridge  prints  the  passage  from  Mitford,  P.  V,  23  f. 
^  Life  of  Lord  Byron,  London,  Walter  Scott,  1890,  p.  160. 
'  Main  Currents  in  Nineteenth  Century  Literature,  trans.   Diana 
White  and  Mary  Morison,  New  York,  Macmillan,  1901  f.,  IV,  336. 


106  Chapter  Six. 

Byron  at  Missolonghi  shortly  before  his  death,   noted  that  the 

poet  considered   it   his   best  tragedy.'     The   cause  of  this  ex- 

r-cellence  is  two-fold.     The  remoteness  of  the  theme  leaves  the 

mind  of  the  reader  open  to  any  impression   that  the  poet  de- 

_  sires  to  convey.     Hence,   in   spite   of  absurdities  arising  from 

•"strict  adherence  to  the  unities,  a  definite  vraisemhlance  remains. 

There  is  plenty  ^f  action;   the   characters  do  not  merely  plan 

and  talk.    But  more  important  than  this  there  is  real  portrayal 

of  character.     "In  Sardanapalus   alone,"    says  Elze,    "is   there 

an  instance  of  the  development  of  character."" 

With  the  exception  of  Manfred  the  biographical  element 
enters  more  largely  into  Sardanajmlus  than  into  an}^  of  the 
dramas.  Nieschlag"  devotes  a  large  part  of  his  monograph  to 
establishing  the  identit}^  of  various  characters  in  the  play.  That 
the  three  chief  characters  are  idealized  portraits  admits  of  no 
doubt.  I  shall  briefly  indicate  the  leading  points  that  connect 
the  play  with  Byron's  own  life,  but  this  shall  be  done  inci- 
dentally in  the  course  of  discussion  of  the  chief  characters. 

Westenholz  (p.  45  f.)  thinks  that  the  moral  awakening 
which  is  the  key-note  of  the  drama  reflects, Byron's  abandon- 
ment of  "the  mud  of  Venice"  for  the  more  respectable  liaison 
with  the  Countess  Guiccioli.*  His  intense  interest  in  the  plots 
and  plans  of  the  Carbonari  for  the  liberation  of  Italy  from  the. 
■^  Austrian  yoke  is  the  inspiration  of  the  anti-tyrant  theme  that 
runs  through  the  play,  but  the  clearer  record  of  this  interest 
is  found  in  the  two  Venetian  plays  and  has  been  sufficiently 
discussed  in  the  last  chapter. 
/         ^  Sardanapalus  is  drawn  from  the  life;  he  is  the  idealization 

v/  '^r^<:r  Qf  Byron's  conception  of  his  own  character,  —  almost  an  apo- 

logia pro  vita  sua.     The   central   trait   of   his   character  is  put 
before  the  reader  in  Salamenes'  opening  speech: 

"If  born  a  peasant,  he  had  been  a  man 

To  have  reached  an  empire:  to  an  empire  born 

He  will  bequeath  none;  nothing  but  a  name"  (I,  i,  13  f.) 

1  Edgcumbe,  p.  101. 

2  Karl  Elze,  Life  of  Byron.  1872,  p.  404. 

^  Hermann  Nieschlag,  Uber  Lord  Bi/rons  ^'SardanajJalus,''  Halle, 
1900,  p.  28  f. 

'  This  was  of  course  no  new  idea;  it  had  been  suggested  in  Gait's 
Life  of  Byron,  1830,  and  was  probably  obvious  to  the  poet's  friends. 


Sardanapalus.  107 

The  Jatent   energies    in   his    nature    have   been    repressed  bj' 

circumstance,  and  because  ease  and  pleasure  were  at  hand  he   

has  taken  his  fill  of  them.  The  influence  of  environment  upon 
character  is  frequently  dwelt  upon  in  the  poetry  of  Byron;  ,  ■=: 
such  phrases  as  "The  influence  of  the  clime,'"  "As  the  soil  is, 
so  the  heart  of  man/"  "Circumstances  make  men,"*  are  often 
met  with.  This  becomes  an  important  motiv  in  Sardanapalus. 
"All  are  the  sons  of  circumstance,"  says  the  king  (III,  i,  820), 
and  again: 

"I  am  the  very  slave  of  circumstance  "^ 

And  impulse  —  borne  away  with  every  breath! 
Misplaced  upon  the  throne  —  misplaced  in  life." 

(IV,  i,  330  f.) 

This,  by  a  natural  process  of  expansion,  leads  to  the  affirm- 
ation of  determinism,  not  thorough-going,  for  here  Byron's 
position  shifts  much,  but  from  time  to  time  confidently  asserted. 

"Fate   made   me  what  I  am  —  may  make  me   nothing,"    says    ^ 

Sardanapalus  (I,  ii,  627),  and  Byron  himself  furnishes  the  essen- 
tial comment: 

"Destiny  and  Passion  spread  the  net 
(Fate  is  a  good  excuse  for  our  oivn  will); 
And  caught  them."* 

.  This  was  written  at  a  later  date.  The  mood  of  Sardanapalus 
is  fatalistic.  It  is  echoed  in  a  remark  of  about  the  same  date: 
"I  have  always  believed  that  aU  things  depend  upon  Fortune, 
and  nothing  upon  ourselves"  (LJ.  V,  451).  With  this  should 
be  compared  the  long  passage  in  The  Two  Foscari  (II,  i,  332  f.)  — 
in  which  the  sense  of  the  influence  of  environment  gradually 
develops  into  the  conviction  that  the  governing  principle  of 
the  universe  is  determinism. 

The   admission   once   made   that  man  is   but  the  sport  of 
circumstance,  there  is  no  restraining  hand  to  keep  the  volup-  ^^ 
tuous   king   from   full   indulgence   in  sensual  selfishness.     The 
resemblance    here   to   Don  Juan   is  close.     Juan    is    the   most 
amiable   of  Byron's  heroes.     He   is   no  cynic  or  misanthrope, 


*  Don  Juan  III,  56. 

*  Ibid.  IV,  55. 

*  Detached  Thoughts,  No.  32,  LJ.  V,  424. 

*  Don  Juan  Xni,  12. 


108  Chapter  Six. 

no  "perfect  Timon  not  nineteen,"  but  young,  enthusiastic,  eager 
to  enjo}^  all  things.  Taking  life  as  it  comes,  he  accepts  the 
love  of  Julia  and  Haidee  and  Dudu  and  the  Empress  and  the 
Duchess,  along  with  shipwreck  and  slavery  and  war  and  dip- 
lomacy. He  does  not  seek;  things  come  his  way.  He  has 
no  will  in  the  matter,  but  is  blown  resistlessly,  if  not  helplessly, 
before  every  wind  of  chance.  Herein  lies  the  moral  objection 
to  Don  Juan\  it  presupposes,  as  Mr.  Coleridge  says  (P.  VI,  xviii), 
no  resistance  to  temptation,  but  rather  submission  to  passion. 
The  character  of  Sardanapalus  is  very  similar.  Byron  made 
him  "as  amiable  as  mj^  poor  powers  could  render  him"  (LJ.  V, 
299),  "almost  a  comic  character"'  (LJ.  V,  324);  but  like  Juan 
he  is  "the  sport  of  circumstances"  and  is  caught  in  the  net 
spread  by  passion. 

The  very  traits  that  result  in  voluptuous  ease  are  also  the 
cause  of  that  humanitarianism  that  makes  him  opposed  to  war. 
This  is  typically  Byronic.  "Note  this  main  point  in  Byron's 
character,"  wrote  Ruskin.  "He  was  the  first  great  Enghshman 
who  felt  the  cruelty  of  war,  and,  in  its  cruelty,  the  shame. 
Its  guilt  had  been  known  to  George  Fox  —  its  folly  shown 
practically  by  Penn.  But  the  compassion  of  the  pious  world 
had  still  for  the  most  part  been  shown  only  in  keeping  its 
stock  of  Barabbases  unhanged  if  possible:  and,  till  Byron  came, 
neither  Kunersdorf,  Eylau,  nor  Waterloo,  had  taught  the  pity 
and  the  pride  of  men  that  — 

'The  drying  up  a  single  tear  has  more 
Of  honest  fame  than  shedding  seas  of  gore.'" 
In  a  note  Ruskin  adds:  "Juan  VIII,  3;  compare  14,  and  63, 
with  all  its  lovely  context  61—68;  then  82,  and  afterwards 
slowly  and  with  thorough  attention,  the  Devil's  speech,  be- 
ginning, 'Yes,  Sir,  you  forget'  in  scene  2  of  The  Deformed 
Transformed:  then  Sardanapalus's,  Act  I,  Scene  2,  beginning, 
'He  is  gone  and  on  his  finger  bears  my  signet,'  and  finally 
the  Vision  of  Judgfnent,  stanzas  3  to  5.'"  Nevertheless,  if  a 
cause  be  sanctified  by  right,  then  war  is  justified;'  otherwise 


*  This  remark  has  occasioned  some  discussion  (e.  g.  by  Schiff,  p.  37  f.), 
but  it  refers,  I  think,  only  to  the  king's  frequent  sallies  of  wit. 

'  Fiction,  Fair  and  Foul,   Works  XXXIV,  328. 

*  Don  Juan  IX,  4. 


Sardanapalus.  109 

"murder"    and   "glory"    are   much  the   same  thing;*  hence  his 
praise  of  Leonidas  and  Washington, 

"Wliose  ever}^  iDattle-fieUl  is  holy  ground, 
Which  breathes  of  nations  saved,  not  worlds  undone."" 
This  brave  hostility  to  war,  in  which  Byron  voices  the  modem 
spirit  of  international  understanding,  is  combined  with  a  clear- 
sighted knowledge  of  the  ephemeral  nature  and  pettiness  of 
fame  and  glory,  unless  won  in  the  cause  of  freedom.  This 
idea  is  constantl)^  present  in  B3'ron's  poetry.  It  is  especially 
notable  in  the  earlier  part  of  Sardanapalus  (I,  ii,  121  f.,  226  f., 
259  f.,  and  548  f.)  Yet  the  king,  when  aroused,  is  capable  of 
defending  his  rights  and  dies  rather  than  yield.  In  battle  he 
shows  energy  that  all  his  "palling  pleasures"  have  not  sapped, 
and  his  bravery  amounts  to  rashness.  He  fights,  not  for  love 
of  glory,  "that  airy  lust,"'  but  in  defence  of  the  empire.  For 
Byron  is  careful  so  to  motive  the  actions  of  the  king's  oppo- 
nents that  no  sympathy  shall  be  expended  upon  them.  They 
fight,  not  for  liberty,  but  for  personal  aggrandizement. 

The  keen  insight  shown  by  Sardanapalus  as  to  the  vanitj^ 
of  glory  causes  in  him  a  certain  contempt  for  his  own  kingl}'^ 
position,  which  he  values  chiefly  as  a  means  to  pleasure.  Fre- 
quentl}'  he  contrasts  his  own  pleasure-loving  life  with  the  career 
of  his  ancestress  Semiramis.  When  reminded  by  Salamenes 
of  her  conquest  of  Bactria,  he  retorts  with  a  reminder  of  her 
miserable  retreat  with  but  twenty  guards.  "Is  this  glory?" 
he  asks  (I,  ii,  138).  He  honors  Bacchus,  not  as  the  conqueror 
of  India,  but  as  the  first  that 

"from  out  the  purple  grape 
Crushed  the  sweet  poison  of  misused  wine," 
though  he  would  have  suppressed  the  last  epithet.    After  speak- 
ing of  bloodshed  and  sepulchres  he  says: 

"I  leave  such  things  to  conquerors;  enough 
For  me,  if  I  can  make  my  subjects  feel 
The  weight  of  human  misery  less,  and  glide 
Ungroaning  to  the  tomb"  (I,  i,  262  f.) 

And  at  his  midnight  banquet  he  asks  his  guests: 


'  Don  Juan  VII,  26. 
"  Ibid.  VIII,  5. 
»  Ibid.  IV,  101. 


110  Chapter  Six. 

"Is  this  not  better  now  than  Nimrod's  hunting, 

Or  my  wild  grandam's  chase  in  search  of  kingdoms 

She  coukl  not  keep  when  conquered?"  (Ill,  i,  5f.) 

Altada  praises  the  king  for  having  "placed  his  jo}^  in  peace  — 
the  sole  true  glory."     Sardanapalus  adds: 

"And  pleasure,  good  Altada,  to  which  glorj?^ 
Is  but  the  path"  (III,  i,  12). 
With  this  compare  the  following  entry  in  B5Ton's  journal  (LJ.  V, 
176).    "The  only  pleasure  of  fame  is  that  it  paves  the  way  to 
pleasure"  —  a  remark   written   two   days   after   Byron   began 
Sardanapalus. 

Analogous  to  his  scorn  of  kingship  and  glory  is  his  distrust 
of  priests.  Priests  and  soldiers  are  "the  most  dangerous  orders 
of  mankind"  (II,  i,  231),  but  Sardanapalus  distrusts  the  priest 
more  than  the  soldier  (II,  i,  277).  Byron's  anti-clericalism  was 
never  as  violent  as  SheUey's  and  among  his  intimate  friends 
were  curiously  enough  a  number  of  clergymen  (Dallas,  Drury, 
Hodgson).  His  attack  upon  priests  in  Sardanapalus  should  be 
collated  with  the  mi\\-doctrinaire  attitude  to  which  there  have 
been  many  references  in  this  monograph. 

Scorn  of  war,  glory,  kingship,  and  priestcraft  all  arise  fi'om 

[?i  fundamental   clearness   of  vision  that  makes  him  free   fi'om 

lany  illusions.    When  he  wishes  to  forget  that  he  is  a  monarch, 

the  wish  is  prompted  not  merely  by  indolence,   for  he  might 

have  kept   the   adornments  of  station  without  the  cares.     He 

Ifcan   see  through  gaudy  robes  to  the  man  within.     He  is  not 

hoodwinked  by  pride  of  place.     Even  pleasure  has  drawn  no 

veil  between  his  eyes  and  the  realities  of  life.    The  pathos  of 

pleasure,    the  nearness   of  laughter  to  weeping,   the   contrast 

between  the  wine  and  revel  of  the  banquet  and  the  silence  of 

the   grave   that   awaits   all  the   revellers,   —  these   things  he 

realizes  to  the  full,  and  in  this  realization  he  is  typical  of  Byron. 

pNone    of   the'  comforts   of   illusion    blind   him   to   the  mystery 

[  beyond.     Yet  — 

"It  were  to  die 
Before  my  hour,  to  live  in  dread  of  death  .  .  . 
I  have  loved  and  lived  and  multiplied  my  image; 
To  die  is  no  less  natural  than  those 
Acts  of  this  clay!"  (1,  ii,  393 f.) 


Sardanapalus.  1 1 1 

When  Myrrha  reminds  him  of  the  death  that  maj'  he  over- 
hanging him,  he  answers: 

"Why  let  it  come  then  unexpectedly, 
Midst  joy  and  gentleness  and  mirth  and  love; 
So  let  me  fall  like  the  plucked  rose  —  far  hetter 
Thus  than  be  withered'"  (1,  ii,  601  f.) 

This  sentiment  is  "from  the  life".  In  the  midst  of  composition 
Byron  wrote  in  his  journal  (LJ.  V,  183),  "Met  some  masques 
in  the  C'orso  —  Vii^e  la  hagateUe!  the  Germans  are  on  the  Po, 
the  Barbarians  are  at  the  gate,  and  their  masters  in  council 
at  Leybach  .  .  .,  and  lo!  the}^  dance  and  sing  and  make 
merry,  'for  to-morrow  they  ma}^  die.'  Who  can  say  that  the 
Arlequins  are  not  right?" 

The  same  scorn  of  illusion  forces  Sardanapalus  into  the 
expression  of  absolule  s.i'pticisin.  Nowhere  in  B^^ron  does 
scepticism  so  run  riot  as  in  this  plaj^  So  prevalent  is  it  that 
it  occasions  the  dramatic  flaw  of  insufficient  differentiation  of 
character.  Sardanapalus,  Salamenes,  Myrrha,  Arbaces,  all,  in 
greater  or  less  degree,  give  expression  to  doubt.  There  is  no 
denial  of  an  overruling  Infinite,  and  the  king's  repeated  scoffing 
at  the  Chaldean  worship  of  the  stars  represents  only  the  Byronic 
scorn  of  su])erstition.  Here,  as  elsewhere  in  Byron,  the  ag- 
nosticism centres  in  the  problem  of  immortality.  It  is  summed 
up  in  the  king's  words,  "There's  something  sweet  in  my  un- 
certainty" (II,  i,  263)  —  noble  words  that  crystallize  tlie  ByVonic 
Tefusal  of  the  comforts  of  conformity  and  illusion.  The}'  ma}^ 
be  supplemented  by  the  following  passage  from  his  journal 
(LJ.  II,  351),  "For  the  soul  of  me,  I  cannot  and  will  not  give 
the  lie  to  my  own  thoughts  and  doubts,  come  what  maj'.  If 
I  am  a  fool,  it  is,  at  least,  a  doubting  one;  and  I  envy  no  one 
the  certainty  of  his  self -approved  wisdom." 

The  character  of  Sardanapalus  is  more  complex  than  any 
other  that  Byron  drew.  Those  who  despise  his  course  of  life 
accuse  him  of  being  effeminate,  but  he  is  not  really  so;  his 
actions  belie  their  words.  Effeminacy  in  men  is  not  a  Byronic 
motiv.  In  only  two  other  places  in  his  poetry  is  there  even  a 
hint  of  such  a  thing:  Selim,  in  The  Bride  of  Abydos  (see  espe- 
cially 1.  99)  feigns  womanishness,  for  a  definite  purpose,  and 
Julia's  maid  speaks  of  Don  Juan's   "half-girlish  face"   (I,  171). 


112  Chapter  Six. 

When,  after  buckling  on  his  armour,  Sardanapalus  calls  for  a 
mirror  (III,  i,  145),  the  incident  is  admirably  in  character,  for 
the  king  is  unconsciously  trying  to  live  up  to  the  manner  of 
life  that  has  been  his  standard.  Similarly,  when  Salamenes 
congratulates  him  on  the  most  glorious  hour  of  his  life,  he  adds 
"And  the  most  tu-esome"  (III,  i,  344).  The  answer  is  sincere 
and  not  unworthy  of  his  real  nobility.  He  is  not  flushed  with 
[success  nor  does  praise  blind  him  to  the  vanity  of  things.  The 
lightness  of  this  reply  is  t3'pical  of  what  Byron  called  the 
t  "comic"  side  of  his  character.  Both  Byron  and  Shelley  were 
very  successful  in  reproducing  the  light  small-talk  of  gentlemen, 
the  finest  example  of  such  work  being  Julian  and  Maddalo. 
Sardanapalus  has  a  good  deal  of  this  easy,  well-bred  conver- 
sation of  which  it  is  difficult  to  give  examples  since  so  much 
depends  on  the  context.^ 

There  is  a  like  triviaUty  in  the  manner  in  which  he  regards 
love.  He  is  far  removed  from  the  kind  of  man  (of  whom  Mark 
Antony  and  the  Chevalier  des  Grieux  are  tj^pical)  who  sacri- 
fices the  world  for  a  woman's  sake.  His  love  of  Myrrha  is 
patronising;  he  addresses  her  as  "beautiful  thing"  (I,  ii,  421); 
when  she  declares  that  she  will  save  him,  he  exclaims: 

^^Save  me,  my  beauty!  Thou  art  very  fair, 
And  what  I  seek  of  you  is  love  —  not  safety"  (I,  ii,  506  f.) 
Note,  too,  the  harsh  "You  here!  Who  call'd  you?"  (IV,  i,  437) 
with  which  he  greets  her  return  after  his  interview  with  his 
wife.  Sardanapalus  is  not  a  love-tragedy,  despite  the  "natural 
female  eloquence"  of  La  Guiccioli. 

Finally  is  to  be  noted  his  scorn  of  the  populace.  This, 
too,  is  typically  Byronic,'^  It  has  been  said  that  Byron's  demo- 
cracy is  as  though  he  were  saying,  "Yes,  indeed;  we  are  all 
brothers,  but  —  ahem!  —  would  you  mind  sitting  on  the  other 
side  of  the  table?"  Byron  is  here  at  one  with  Shakespeare, 
who  with  perfect  tolerance  of  the  individual,  has  nothing  good 
to  say  of  the  crowd.  The  mob  impressed  him  with  their  "rank 
breaths"  and  "sweaty  nightcaps."  Byron  has  a  like  feeling. 
There  are  various  elements  in  this  Goriolanian  scorn  —  (I)  the 


1  Cf.  e.(j.,  I,  ii,  563  f.;  II,  i,  239  f. 

*  See,  among  other  passages,  Childe  Harold  III,  113  aud  IV,  171;  and 
Sardanapalus  I,  ii,  338  f . 


Sardanapalus.  113 

caste  feeling  so  remarkable  in  Manfred,  (2)  knowledge  of  the 
fleetingness  of  fame  —  fame  that  is  borne  abroad  upon  popular 
breath,  and  (3)  an  ineradicable  aristocratic  scorn  of  the  demos 
as  such. 

Sardanapalus  is  thus  another  personification  of  jthe  struggle 
^  the  two  natures  within  man.  The  better  traits  lie  hidden 
under  jears  of  selfish  enjoyment,  but  even  his  enemies  are 
conscious  of  their  existence.'  Stress  of  circumstance  forces 
these  nobler  qualities  to  the  surface,  "Zwei  Seelen  wohnen, 
ach!  in  meiner  Brust!"  is  Faust's  cr}'^,  and  it  might  be  repeated 
by  Sardanapalus.     In  his  nature  appears  the  chaos  of 

"Light  and  Darkness  — 
And  mind  and  dust  —  and  passion  and  pure  thoughts 
Mixed  and  contending  without  end  or  order.'"'' 

From  this  chaos  qi'der  comes.  There  is  moral  regeneration 
accomplished  by  material  downfall.  He  will  not  purchase  life 
at  the  price  of  slavery,  but  renounces  for  it  the  sake  of  freedom. 
Like  Byron  himself,  "he  passed  through  the  doorwaj'  of  no 
ignoble  death." 

The  poet's  self-portraiture  in  the  character  of  Sardanapalus 
is  ver}'  evident.  His  love  of  pleasure  and  ease,  his  selfishness 
and  over-sensuality,  his  dislike  of  war  and  glory,  his  energy 
and  perfect  fearlessness  when  aroused,  his  antagonism  towards 
priests  and  kings,  his  wit,  pride,  scepticism,  freedom  from 
illusions,  and  claim  to  intellectual  libertj',  are  all  of  the  very 
essence  of  Byron's  complex  nature.  From  the  days  of  Henr}- 
Taylor  and  Garlyle  the  cr}"  of  anti-Byronism  has  been  that  the 
poet  drew  only  his  own  character.  One  is  tempted  to  ask 
whether  it  is  reflected  in  Faliero,  Foscari,  Hugo,  Salamenes, 
John  Johnson,  the  Abbot  of  St.  Maurice,  Japhet,  or  Abel!  All 
critics  must  admit,  however,  that  Sardanapalus  is  an  auto- 
biographic revelation. 

In  Marino  Faliero  Byron  had  attempted  a  tragedy  without 
love  (LJ.  V,  243).  Into  his  second  play,  at  the  behest  of  his 
lady,  he  "put  more  love."  But  it  is  wrong  to  say  that  Sar- 
danapalus is  "redeemed"  through  the  power  of  love.    His  spii'it- 


^  Cf .  II,  i,  89  f.  and  35(5  f.     Cf.  also  Salamenes'  testimony,  I,  i,  9  f. 
*  Manfred  III,  i,  163  f. 
Uesperla.B.  3.  g 


114  Chapter  Six. 

ual  regeneration  comes  about  through  the  reappearance  on 
tlie  surface  of  his  nature  of  those  better  qualities  that  have 
been  hidden  beneath,  and  it  is  the  power  of  his  own  will  that 
urges  him  on.  No  word  from  Myrrha  is  needed  to  send  him 
out  to  battle.  On  the  contrar}^,  his  exhibition  of  courage  in- 
spires her  to  greater  love  (TIT,  i,  177f.)  Her  influence  curbs 
his  rashness,  as  when  she  keeps  him  from  going  to  the  pavilion 
(I,  i,  613),  but  it  does  not  directly  bring  out  his  higher  quahties. 
For  example,  had  B5'ron  wished  to  make  redemption  by  love 
his  central  theme,  he  would  have  arranged  matters  so  that  the 
suggestion  of  death  by  fire,  ratlier  than  defeat,  should  have 
come  from  Myrrha.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  he  who  plans  this 
without  even  expecting  her  to  die  with  him.  Trove's  full  force 
is  spent  upon  Myrrha.  This  conception  is  eminentl}^  B3'ronic, 
and  analogous  passages  are  numberless,  the  most  famous  being 
the  oft-quoted  and  very  wonderful  letter  of  Domia  .Tujia  fn 
Juan  inj]i£_iii::st-eanta^  Don  Juan.  Myrrha's  words  throughout 
the  pla}^  exactly  correspond  to  the  tenor  of  that  letter.  She 
confesses  tlie  omnipotence  of  love.  She  loves  the  king  despite 
country,  honor,  shame,  and  everything.  ITer  feelings  grow 
nobler  as  dangers  gather  round  him  and  as  he  proves  to  her 
how  worthy  he  is  of  love.  Tmmediately  before  the  end,  think- 
ing of  the  commingling  of  her  lover's  ashes  and  her  own,  she 
says: 

"Pure  as  is  m}^  love  to  thee,  shall  the}'. 

Purged  fi^om  the  dross  of  earth  and  earthly  passion. 

Mix  pale  with  thine"  (V,  i,  472  f.) 

J  Surel}'  it  is  the  woman,  not  the  man,  who  is  redeemed  through 
the  greatness  of  love.  The  salvation  of  the  king  is  worked 
out  independently  and  by  other  means.  Despite  his  Countess, 
Byron  remained  firm  in  his  opinion  that  love  was  not  fit  for 
the  central  tuotiv  in  tragedy.  It  is  the  woman's  part.  But 
Myrrha  is  more  than  a  "blasted  flower  of  love."  She  is  the 
finest,  as  she  is  the  most  individual,  of  Byron's  women.  It 
has  been  said  that  Byron's  portrayal  of  women  is  degrading, 
that  they  are  the  mere  toys  of  men.  To  point  to  Angiola, 
Marina,  Myrrha,  and  Haidee  is  sufficient  answer.  The  mis- 
conception arises  from  Byron's  belief  that  love  reallj'  was 
"woman's  whole  existence."     He  tends  to  exaggerate  the  de- 


Sardanapalus.  115 

pendence  of  women  on  men,*  but  in  this  dependence  there  is 
much  that  is  noble  and  admirable.  They  minister  to  tlieir 
lover,  they  lighten  for  him  the  load  of  human  ills,  their  in- 
stinct is  to  shield  him.  This  last  trait  is  exquisitely  shown  in 
Ui)n__JKan  (IV,  42  —  48),  where  Haidee,  with  no  thought  for 
herself,  throws  her  bod}'  in  front  of  Juan  to  protect  him  from 
her  father's  pistol.  There  is  no  degrading  conception  of  woman 
in  that  scene,  or  in  Angiola's  appearance  in  the  comi-room  in 
Marino  Faliero,  or  in  Marina's  devotion  to  Foscari. 

And  love  is  not  Myrrha's  nature  to  the  exclusion  of  all 
else.  She  is  unselfish;  her  happiness  is  in  beholding  his  hap- 
piness (I,  ii,  25).  Slie  is  disinterested,  loving  him  more  in  ill 
fortune  than  in  good.  She  is  splendidly  brave,  refusing  the 
guard  sent  to  protect  her  because  his  services  are  needed 
elsewhere,  and  extracting  unwilling  praise  even  from  Salamenes 
(III,  i,  409).  Like  Sardanapalus,  though  in  less  degree,  she 
represents  the  fi'eedom  of  the  mind.  He  has  never  been  de- 
ceived by  the  glor}^  of  his  position;  she  makes  no  attempt  to 
gloss  over  the  shame  of  liers.  She  submits  to  none  of  the 
illusions  that  could  so  easil}'  comfort  her  and  to  which  she 
could  so  naturally  become  a  prey.  "To  the  measure  of  the 
light  vouchsafed"  she  is  clear-sighted  to  the  end. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  M3'rrha's  character  was  copied 
from  La  Guiccioli.  It  is  noteworthy  that  she  has  no  prototype 
in  the  narratives  of  Diodorus  and  Mitford.  There  is  something 
of  patronage,  as  I  have  said,  in  the  attitude  of  the  king  to- 
wards Myrrha,  not  unlike  the  not  overstrong  bonds  that  held 
BjTon  to  his  mistress.  Gait  (p.  238)  sa3^s  that  with  all  her 
love  of  Byron,  there  was  mingled  in  the  mind  of  the  Countess 
much  remorse  and  regret.  With  this  statement  compare 
MyiTha's  speech  at  the  close  of  the  first  act  (11.  641  f.).  But 
there  is  a  firmness  and  depth  of  nature  in  the  slave  for  which 
one  looks  in  vain  in  the  Italian  lad}-,  and  one  must  conclude - 
that  Myrrha  is  not  so  much  a  portrait  as  she  is  B3'ron's  ideal 
of  a  woman  in  the  position  in  which  he  imagines  her. 

Zarina  is  a  more  faintly  drawn  sketch  and  is  of  import- 
ance   onl}'    from    the    autobiographical    point    of   view.      It   is 


Cf.  e.  g.   The  Two  Foscari  V,  i,  95  f.;  Cain  HI,  i,  39  f. 

8  = 


116  Chapter  Six. 

unnecessaiy  to  review  the  relations  between  Byron  and  his 
wife  or  to  point  out  the  analogy  between  her  situation  and 
that  of  Zarina  in  any  detail.^  Gait  long  ago  said  (p.  239)  that 
the  scene  between  Sardanapalus  and  his  wife  could  not  have 
been  imagined  without  some  thought  of  Byron'-s  own  domestic 
disasters.  Since  Gait's  time  other  students  have  elaborated  the 
parallel.  Byron  seems  often  to  have  imagined  a  meeting  with 
his  wife.  Thus  in  March,  1817,  he  wrote  her  (LJ.  IV,  66), 
"I  feel  at  length  convinced  that  the  feeling  which  I  had 
cherished  through  all  and  in  spite  of  all,  namely  —  the  hope 
of  a  reconciliation  and  a  reunion,  however  remote,  —  is  indu- 
bitably useless;  and  although,  all  things  considered,  it  could 
not  be  very  sangume,  still  it  was  sincere,  and  I  cherished  it 
as  a  sickly  infatuation:  and  now  I  part  with  it  with  a  regret, 
perhaps  bitterer  .  .  .  [than]  that  which  I  felt  in  parting  with 
yourself."  The  manner  in  which  the  king  greets  Zarina,  and 
his  expressions  of  remorse  are  characteristic  of  BjTon's  better 
feelings  towards  his  wife,  and  should  be  set  off  to  his  credit 
against  the  caricature  of  her  in  the  portrait  of  Donna  Inez. 
Note  especially  the  speech  beginning  "My  gentle,  wrong'd 
Zarina"  (IV,  i,  329  f.),  of  which  Gait  says  (p.  240),  "it  is  im- 
possible to  read  this  speech  without  a  conviction  that  it  was 
written  to  Lady  Byron."  With  it  compare  the  letter  to  Moore 
of  March  8,  1816  (LJ.  Ill,  272).  There  are  other  personal 
"notes"  in  this  scene  —  with  the  king's  anxiety  as  to  his 
children  compare  Byron's  love  for  Allegra  and  his  frequent 
inquiries  about  Ada.  As  in  the  case  of  Myrrha,  Zarina  is  not 
i  a  portrait  of  Lady  Byron,  but  Byron's  ideal  of  the  wronged 
and  forgiving  wife,  —  with  perhaps  a  touch  of  veiled  satire 
in  the  contrast  with  reality.^ 

Myrrha  has  been  called  "a  female  Salamenes,"  —  a  misnomer, 
for  their  ruling  passions  are  far  apart.  But  in  many  respects 
they  ai'e  alike.    Salamenes  is  Byron's  least  unsuccessful  attempt 


*  See  on  this,  Nieschlag,  p.  49  f. 

*  Compare,  for  example,  Zarina 's  promise  that  her  sons  shall  know 
nothing  save  what  will  honor  their  father's  memory  (1.  276  f.)  with  Lady 
Noel's  directions  in  her  will  that  her  portrait  of  Byron  should  not  be  shown 
to  Ada  till  she  was  of  age,  and  even  then  only  with  the  permission  of  Lady 
Byron. 


Sardanapalus.  1 1 7 

to  depict  a  man  of  a  type  utterl}^  unlike  himself;  he  is  much 
more  convincinfj^,  for  example,  than  John  Johnsonjn  Dan  Jitgn^ 
He  is  brave,  clear-sighted,  level-headed,  but  with  nothing  of 
the  superman,  characteristic  of  Byronic  heroes,  that  is  seen 
struggling  for  recognition  in  the  soul  of  the  king.  His  chief 
trait  is  loyalt}';  he  is  another  instance  of  that  higher  loyalty, 
so  frequent  a  theme  in  Byron.  Here  the  choice  is  between 
personal  and  public  duty  and  honor,  and  while  Salamenes  never 
hesitates  in  what  he  believes  to  be  the  right  course,  the  signs 
of  the  struggle  are  apparent.  Thus,  when  the  king  calls  him 
"brother,"  he  replies: 

"The  queen's  brother, 
And  your  most  faithful  vassal,  royal  lord"  (I,  ii,  32  f.) 
When  Sardanapalus  says: 

"Get  thee  hence,  then; 
And,  prithee,  think  more  gently  of  thy  brother," 
he   answers,    "Sire,    I  shall   ever   duly    serve    my   sovereign" 
(II,  i,  516  f.) 

Set  off  from  the  king  and  his  party  are  the  figures  of  the 
two  conspirators,  portrayed  with  rough,  broad  strokes.  Beleses, 
the  priest,  is  the  abler  of  the  two,  because  of  his  training  in 
craft  and  guile.  His  deceit  contrasts  with  the  sterling  honesty 
of  Salamenes,  his  superstition  with  the  utter  lack  of  superstition 
in  Sardanapalus.  Other  traits  he  has  none.  Arbaces,  the 
soldier,  is  a  foil  to  the  other  men  in  the  play.  In  comparison 
with  Beleses  he  is  open  and  sincere,  and  not  utterly  lacking 
in  worth.  The  uses  to  which  he  puts  his  bravery  are  contrasted 
with  the  loyalty  of  Salamenes,  who,  with  far  greater  cause  to 
rebel,  remains  faithful  unto  death.  His  material  success  is  in 
sharp  opposition  to  the  spiritual  triumph  of  Sardanapalus. 
Byron  shows  that  the  king  is  unfit  to  rule,  but  he  has  no 
sympathy  with  the  forces  of  rebellion,  because  they  are  inspired 
by  unworthy  motives.  The  conspirators  are  obsessed  with  the 
lust  of  power.  They  shake  off  the  yoke  of  a  hght  tyranny 
under  which  the  country  has  prospered,  only  to  burden  it 
with  a  worse.* 

Lord  Morley*  speaks  of  the  occasionally  startling  triteness 

^  This  is  shown  in  the  incident  of  the  herald,  V,  i,  321  f. 
^  Critical  Miscellanies,  London,  Macmillan,  1908,  I,  249. 


118  Chapter  Seven. 

of  Byron's  moral  climaxes,  and  instances  Sardanapalus  IV,  i, 
432  f.  A  still  better  example  of  such  moral  J3athos  is  the 
following  ending  of  a  fine  speech: 

'Time  .  . . 
Shall  spare  this  deed  of  mine,  and  hold  it  up 
A  problem  few  dare  imitate,  and  none 
Despise  —  hut,  it  may  he,  avoid  the  life 
Which  led  to  such  a  consummation"  (V,  i,  442  f.) 

It  needs  no  ghost,  come  fi'om  the  grave,  to  tell  us  that!  The 
real  moral  of  the  piece  is  that  material  triumph  is  not  necessarily 
I,  j ifccompanied  by  moral  elevation  and  that  spiritual  victory 
surpasses  many  conquests.  Some  critics,  notabl}^  Gerard,  inter- 
pret the  close  of  the  play  as  Byron's  affirmative  answer  to  all 
his  questionings  as  to  another  life.  The}^  feel  that  the  exaltation 
is  incompatible  with  any  emotion  save  belief  that  Myrrha  and 
her  lover,  "purged  from  the  dross  of  earth  and  earthly  passion," 
and  not  merelj^  their  pale  ashes,  will  indeed  meet  and  embrace 
again.  I  cannot  see  that  there  is  here  any  attempt  at  such 
an  answer.  Byron  is  still  unable  to  wrench  from  death  absolute 
confirmation  of  faith.  ^  But  even  though  his  lovers  pass  through 
fire  into  nothingness  the  triumph  remains  forever. 


Chapter  Seven. 

Cain  and  Heaven  and  Earth. 

Cain. 
The  subject  of  Gain  had  been  in  Byron's  mind  since  boyhood. 
"When  I  was  a  boy,"  he  told  Medwin  (p.  125),  "I  studied 
German  which  I  have  now  entirely  forgotten.  It  was  very 
little  I  ever  knew  of  it.  Abel  was  one  of  the  first  books  my 
German  master  read  to  me;  and  whilst  he  was  crying  his  eyes 
out  over  its  pages,  I  thought  that  any  other  than  Gain  had 
hardly  committed  a  crime  in  ridding  the  world  of  so  dull  a 
fellow  as  Gessner  made  brother  Abel."  "Die  erscheinung  (<ains 
in  den  dichtungen  Byron's,"    says  Ackermann,'  "ist  librigens 

f  '  Don  Juan  V,  38. 

2  Anglia  BeiblaU  VIII,  21. 


Cain  and  Heaven  and  Earth.  119 

ebenso  vielfach   zu  finden,   wie  die.jenip^e  des  Wanderiiij":  Jew 
ill  denen  Shelley's."    Examples  of  such  allusions  are  as  follows: 

"But  look  —  'tis  written  on  my  brow! 
There  read  of  Cain  the  curse  and  crime."' 
"He  reared  me,  not  with  tender  help, 
But  like  the  nephew  of  a  Cain."* 
"By  thy  delight  in  others'  pain, 
And  by  thy  brotherhood  of  Cain.'" " 

On  January  28,  1821,  Byron  noted  in  his  diary  (LJ.  V,  189) 
that  he  had  "pondered  the  subjects  of  four  tragedies,"  one  of 
which  was  "Cain,  a  metaphysical  subject,  something  in  the 
style  of  Man/red,  but  in  five  acts,  perhaps,  with  a  chorus." 
Cain  was  begun  at  Ravenna  on  July  16,  1821,  and  finished 
September  9.  On  the  following  da}'  Byron  sent  it  to  Murray, 
with  instructions  to  print  it  with  the  two  historical  tragedies 
which  he  had  already  sent.  "I  think  it  contains  some  poetry, 
being  in  the  style  of  Manfred''  (LJ,  V,  360).  Later  letters 
contain  further  references,  some  of  which  shall  be  cited  presently. 
The  "mystery"  was  published,  together  with  Sardanapalns  and 
The  Two  Fosrari,  on  December  19,  1821. 

The  primary  and  obvious  source  of  Cain  is  the  biblical 
account  in  the  fourth  chapter  of  Genesis,  on  which  narrative 
Byron  affected  absolutely  to  rest.  In  his  preface  he  writes 
(P.  V,  207),  "The  author  has  endeavoured  to  preserve  the 
language  adapted  to  his  characters;  and  where  it  is  (and  this 
is  but  rarely)  taken  from  actual  Scripture,  he  has  made  as  little 
alteration,  even  of  words,  as  the  rhythm  would  permit.  The 
reader  will  recollect  that  the  book  of  Genesis  does  not  state 
that  Eve  was  tempted  by  a  demon,  but  by  'the  Serpent ;'  and 
that  only  because  he  was  'the  most  subtil  of  all  the  beasts  of 
the  field.'  Whatever  interpretation  the  Rabbins  and  the  Fathers 
may  have  put  upon  this,  I  take  the  words  as  I  find  them,  and 
reply,  with  Bishop  Watson  upon  similar  occasions,  when  the 
Fathers  were  quoted  to  him  as  Moderator  in  the  schools  of 
Cambridge,  'Behold  the  Book!'  —  holding  up  the  Scripture." 
In    the    elaboration    of   character    he   departs   much   from   our 

1  The  aiaour.  1.  1057  f. 

2  The  Bride  of  Abydos,  I.  686  f. 
■»  Manfred,  I,  i,  248  f . 


120  Chapter  Seven. 

preconceived  notions,  but  he  inserts  nothing  absolutely  contrary 
to  the  possibilities  of  the  biblical  stor}'.  By  accepting  the 
outline  of  the  storj^  in  Genesis,  and  especially  the  account  of 
the  acquisition  of  knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  he  turns  the 
orthodox  teaching  to  the  advantage  of  scepticism.  As  Schaffner 
says,  "Die  Orthodoxie  bekampft  er  mit  ihren  eigenen  Waffen!" 
Scripture  tells  of  the  prohibition  to  eat  of  the  fruit  of  the 
tree  which  was  in  the  midst  of  the  garden.  The  consequent 
question  is  — 

"Knowledge  is  good. 
And  Life  is  good;  and  how  can  both  be  evil?" 

/  The  scepticism   is   made  the  logical  outcome   of  the   orthodox 

'  doctrine.   It  is  significant  that  in  his  care  for  the  literal  narrative 

Bj^ron    goes  so  far   as  to   include   two   incidents   (perhaps   too 

famiHar  to  be  disregarded),  which  do  not  fit  perfectly  with  his 

/'plan.    Byron  said  to  Medwin  (p.  129),  "the  maik  that  was  put 

I  upon  Gain  is  a  sublime  and  shadowy  act.    Goethe  would  have 

^made  more  of  it  than  I  have  done."     Probably;   but  only  bj- 

altering  the   catastrophe   so  as   to  bring  out  the  full   force  of 

the   symbolism  behind  the   act.     As   it  is,   the   "seal"   of  the 

angel  is  rather  of  an  anticlimax  to  Eve's   curse.     So  also  the 

bibUcal  narrative  includes  the   question,     "Am  I  my  brother's 

keeper?"  This  is  in  precise  accord  with  the  orthodox  tradition, 

and  is  the  foundation  upon  which   is  reared  the   structure   of 

Gain's  character  in  the  mysteries;    but  it  fits  ill  with  Byron's 

conception,   and  can  be  explained  only  as  a  flash  of  defiance 

existing  along  with  utter  remorse. 

The  scriptural  foundation  of  the  mystery  is  therefore  hardly 
more  than  a  cadre^  furnishing  in  broad  outhne  the  general 
situation,  the  climax  and  the  catastrophe.  The  action  of  the 
first  and  second  acts  has  no  basis  at  all  in  Scripture.  The 
character  of  Gain  in  the  Bible  is  but  dimly  perceived  through 
his  words  and  actions,  and  is  as  thus  imagined  utterl}^  different 
from  that  which  Byron  dehneates.  The  motive  of  the  murder 
is  indicated  only  by  inference,  and  from  that  appears  petty  and 
base.  Here  Byron  departs  widely  from  his  source;  all  his 
genius  is  expended  in  developing  the  several  causes,  which, 
when  combined  with  sudden  anger,  will  lead  to  the  commission 


Cain  and  Heaven  and  Earth.  ^21 

of  a  deed  utterly  abhorrent  to  the  real  nature  of  the  man.  1  le 
evolves  an  explanation,  almost  an  excuse. 

From  the  mysteries  on  the  subject  of  the  Death  of  Abel 
Byron  got  nothing  save  the  generic  name,  which  he  uses  in 
a  way  that  shows  but  vague  knowledge  of  the  medieval  drama.' 
Schaffner'"'  suggests  that  Byron  may  have  obtained  his  knowledge 
of  the  subject  from  Warton's  History  of  Etiglish  Poetry.  This 
is  altogether  likel}'.  It  is  possible  that  he  was  indebted  to 
Dodsley's  Old  Plays. '  Schaffner  adduces  various  parallels 
between  Cain  and  the  Mactacio  Abel  of  the  so-called  Towneley 
cycle,*  but,  besides  the  fact  that  this  collection  was  not  printed 
till  1836,  there  is  nothing  in  common  between  the  passionately 
speculative  Byronic  hero  and  the  coarse  low  hind  of  the  profane 
and  realistic  mystery.  The  resemblances  cited  are  superficial 
and  insignificant.  Of  even  less  importance  were  the  other 
cycles.  The  Chester  Plays  were  available  in  the  Roxburghe 
edition  of  1818;  the  Coventry  Plays,  though  represented  by 
a  version  in  Stevens's  continuation  of  Dugdale's  Monasticon,^ 
were  probably  not  easily  to  be  acquired.  At  all  events  the 
indebtedness  to  these  plays  was  practically  nothing.  Cain  is 
therein  always  represented  as  mean  and  jealous  and  foul- 
mouthed.  There  is  a  certain  amount  of  rough  comedy.  There 
is  no  tinge  of  scepticism. 

In  his  preface  (P.  V,  208),  Byron  says  that  he  had  not 
read  Gessner's  Death  of  Abel  since  he  was  eight  years  old ;  his 
already  quoted  remark  to  Medwin  but  imperfectly  accords 
with  the  statement  in  the  preface  that  his  "general  impression" 
was  "delight."  Between  Cain  and  Der  Tod  Abels  the  differences 
are  greater  than  the  resemblances.®  The  pastoral  character  of 
the  German  play  is  faintly  reproduced  in  Cain,  but  the  vague 
motivation  and  confused  characterization  has  disappeared.    The 

^  Note  the  mistaken  identification  of  "mysteries"  and  "moralities"  in 
the  first  sentence  of  Byron's  preface  (P.  V,  207). 

*  Alfred  Schaffner,  Lord  Byron's  Cain  und  seine  Quellen,  Strassburg, 
1880,  p.  23. 

'  Dodsley  (ed.  1749,  I,  xii)  was  the  first  to  employ  the  word  "Mystery'" 
to  describe  a  kind  of  drama. 

*  E.  E.  T.  S.,  Extra  Series,  No.  Ixxi,  1897. 

"  Ed.  1722,  I,  139  f.     See  E.  H.  Coleridge's  note,  P.  V,  207. 

*  See  Schaffner,  p.  23-5. 


122 


Chapter  Seven. 


\J 


effort  of  any  poet  working  with  the  theme  must  be  to  establish 
an  adequate  motive  for  the  murder  of  Abel;  the  sheer  causeless 
jealousy  implied  by  the  brief  biblical  story  is  not  sufficient  for 
the  foundation  of  tragedy.  Gessner  accepts  jealousy  as  the 
basis  of  the  crime,  but  accounts  for  it  by  contrasting  the 
luxurious  and  idle  life  of  Abel's  family  with  the  toilsome  and 
wretched  existence  of  Cain's.  There  is  nothing  of  the  Byronic 
aspirations  of  a  mind  that  seeks  to  outsoar  the  limitations  of 
circumstance.  Abel  is  much  alike  in  both  plays ;  Byron  merely 
puts  the  characteristics  given  him  by  Gessner  and  inherited 
from  the  mysteries  in  a  less  favorable  light.  He  is  a  long- 
winded  moralizer.  So  in  less  degree  is  Adam.  How  much  of 
this  Byron  actually  recollected  from  Gessner  and  how  much 
was  the  natural  result  of  the  effort  to  portray  antipathetic 
characters  it  is  difficult  to  determine,  but  I  incline  to  the  behef 
■  that  much  of  the  resemblance  to  Gessner  is  coincidence.  The 
destruction  of  Cain's  altar  by  the  whirlwind  and  the  substitution 
of  the  Angel  of  the  Lord  for  God  Himself  are  individual  incidents 
common  to  both  plays,  which  B3a'on  probably  owed  to  his 
recollection  of  Gessner. 

Of  late  a  new  source  of  Cabi,  overlooked  by  Schaffner, 
has  been  suggested.*  This  is  the  apocryphical  Book  of  Enoch 
which  is  a  source  of  Heaven  and  Earth.  In  his  dissertation  on 
that  play,  Mayn**  came  to  the  conclusion,  accepted  by  Coleridge, 
that  while  B3Ton  undoubtedly  knew  the  fragment  Concerning 
the  Watchers^  it  was  not  certain  that  he  knew  the  complete 
book.  As  early  as  1807,  when  he  wrote  out  a  "List  of  Historical 
Writers""  he  had  read,  Byron  mentions  Bruce  as  one  of  the 
sources  of  his  slight  knowledge  of  Africa.  But  acquaintance 
with  Bruce's  travels  does  not  prove  acquaintance  with  the 
text  of  the  MSS.  brought  home  by  Bruce.  A  translation  by 
Richard  Laurence  appeared  in  1821.  The  question  whether 
or  not  Byron  had  seen  this  Mayn  and  Coleridge  leave  unsolved. 
Eimer  proves   that  he  had.     This  is  not  remarkable   in  so  far 


*  M.  Eimer,  "Das  apokryphe  buch  Henoch  uud  Byrons  mysterien," 
Eng.  Stud.  XLIV,  26  f . 

'''  George  Mayn,  Ubcr  Lord  Byrons  "Heaven  and  Earth."  Breslau,  1887. 

•'  Mayn,  p.  20;  Moore's  Life,  cd.  1837,  I,  79;  Prothcro  does  not  reprint 
this  list. 


Cain  and  Heaven  and  Earth.  123 

as  it  concerns  Heaven  and  Earth ;  hut  there  are  notahle  resem- 
blances to  Cain  also,  contained  in  scattered  passages  in  chapters 
xvii  to  xliv,  in  which  it  is  told  how  Enoch  was  taken  "to  a 
certain  spot,  to  a  mountain,  the  top  of  which  reached  to  heaven," 
where  he  saw  "the  spirits  of  the  sons  of  men  who  were  dead," 
and  heard  the  voice  of  Abel  accusing  Cain.  These  parallels 
are  summed  up  by  Eimer  (p.  29)  thus:  "Es  ist  nicht  nur  die 
ahnlichkeit  der  situation,  sondern  auch  eine  unverkennbare 
iibereinstimmung  des  inhalts,  was  angesichts  der  bier  angefiihrten 
steUen  des  buchs  Henoch  (bei  Laurence)  und  des  Cain  un- 
mittelbar  auffallt.  Die  immer  wiederholte  schilderung  des  welt- 
raumes  mit  seinen  gestirnen,  die  einblicke  in  die  verborgenen 
reiche  der  abgeschiedenen,  das  durchdringen  des  weltraums  bis 
in  die  dunkelsten  tiefen,  das  forschen  nach  den  wundern  und 
ratseln,  frage  und  antwort,  die  wissbegierde,  endlich  die  an- 
spielung  auf  die  verganglichkeit  der  bestehenden  welt,  —  das 
alles  sind  ahnlichkeiten,  die  nicht  tibersehen  werden  konnen." 

If  when  Bj-ron  first  "pondered"  over  Cain,  he  planned 
the  fhght  through  the  Abyss  of  Space  and  Hades,  he  could 
not  have  received  any  suggestions  from  the  Book  of  Enoch 
since  Laurence's  translation  was  not  then  published.  But  by 
July,  1821,  when  he  actually  began  the  composition  of  the 
play,  the  book  might  have  reached  him  fi'om  England,  and^ 
the  parallels  adduced  by  Eimer  estabhsh  almost  conclusively  J 
that  it  had  done  so. 

From  the  time  of  the  publication  of  Cain  until  now,  com- 
parisons of  Byron's  mystery  with  Paradise  Lost  have  been  so 
frequent  that  it  is  unnecessary  to  discuss  the  matter  in  great 
detail.  "Of  his  indebtedness  to  Milton,"  says  Mr.  Coleridge 
(P.  V;  201),  "he  makes  no  formal  acknowledgment,  but  he  was 
not  ashamed  to  shelter  himself  behind  Milton's  shield  when  he 
was  attacked  on  the  score  of  blasphemy  and  profanity."  What 
he  did  not  see,  or  affected  not  to  see,  was  that  the  motive 
for  the  introduction  of  "blasphemy  and  profanity"  could  not 
be  impugned  in  Milton's  case,  but  might  well  be  in  his  own. 
The  most  obvious,  yet  least  important,  connection  between  the 
two  poems  is  the  very  large  number  of  verbal  parallels,  which 
show  how  thoroughly  Byron  had  studied  Paradise  Lost  and 
how   retentive   was  his  memory,   if,   what  he  declared   in   his 


124  Chapter  Seven. 

preface  ("Since  I  was  twenty  I  have  never  read  Milton;  but 
I  had  read  him  so  frequently  before,  that  this  may  make  little 
difference")  be  believed.  There  is  close  relationship  between 
Milton's  Satan  and  Byron's  Lucifer.  "Der  Miltonische  Satan 
ist  seiner  ausseren  Erscheinung  nach  kein  Teufel  .  .  .  mit 
Klauen,  Hornern,  Schwanz  und  Pferdefuss,  sondern  eine 
titanenhafte  Gestalt,  deren  Umrisse  zwar  menschlich  sind,  sich 
aber  bis  ins  Kolossale  dehnen  und  von  gewitterhaftem  Halb- 
dunkel  umwolkt  sind."  ^  The  same  remark  applies  to  Lucifer, 
except  that  Byron's  imagination  has  failed  to  render  him  quite 
so  gigantic  a  figure  as  Satan}  a  fact  due  also  partly  to  the  lack 
of  the  intensified  human  qualities  with  which  Milton  has  endowed 
Satan.  Lucifer  is  nearer  to  pure  spirit,  more  of  an  abstraction 
than  Sa.tan.  Milton  has  added  elements  of  physical  deformity 
and  repulsion,  especially  in  [the  later  appearances  of  Satan, 
that  are  absent  from  Byron's  creation.  Yet  the  chief  charac- 
teristic of  both  is  the  same.  The  great  conception  is  that  of 
the  fallen  archangel.  Their  forms  have  not  yet  lost  all  their 
original  lustre.  There  is  still  something  of  celestial  brightness 
hovering  about  them,  though  dimmed  and  changed.  Both  have 
in  them  the  spirit  of  the  Titan,  the  eternal  struggle  of  the 
individual  against  omnipotence^  Even  in  Paradise  Lost  there 
is  a  suggestion  of  Manicheism  in  Satan's  words: 

"Evil,  be  thou  my  Good:  by  thee  at  least 

Divided  empire  with  Heaven's  King  I  hold. 

By  thee,  and  more  than  half  perhaps  will  reign"  (IV,  1  lOf.) 

This  is  echoed  in  Lucifer's  words: 

"So  that  I  do  divide 
His  and  possess  a  kingdom  which  is  not 
His"     (I,  i,  552  f.) 

Both  plan  to  invade  the  realm  of  good  and  to  form  a  league 
with  mankind,  or,  if  that  be  impossible,  to  snare  him  into  evil. 
The  Manicheism  of  such  passages  is  purely  dramatic.  In  the 
midst  of  Tartuffe's   casuistry  the  cautious  Moliere  reminds  his 

(  readers  that  "c'est  un  scelerat  qui  parle."    Those  who  attacked 
Cain  were  too  apt  to  lose  sight  of  the  dramatic  nature  of  the 

\  dialogue  and  think  that  the  "scelerat"  was  Byron  himself. 

Besides  part  of  his  conception  of  the  character  of  Lucifer 

V  '  G.  Wenzel,  "Miltons  und  Byrons  Satan,"  Herrig's  Archiv  LXXXIII,  71. 


Cain  aild  Heaven  and  Earth.  125 

Byron  got  various  details  from  Paradise  Lost,  of  which  only 
the  most  important  need  here  be  mentioned.  The  flight  through 
chaos  in  the  second  book  furnished  .suggestions  for  the  flight 
of  Lucifer  and  Gain  through  the  abyss  of  space. '  To  Milton's 
description  Byron  owes  at  least  as  much  as  to  the  passages 
from  the  Book  of  Enoch  already  noted.  It  maj^  be  added  here 
that  the  flight  of  the  "magic  car"  in  Queen  Mah  also  furnished 
hints  for  this  scene''  and  much  of  the  speech  of  Ahasuerus 
later  in  Shelley's  poem  (VII,  84  f.)  is  in  the  mood  of  Lucifer's 
denunciations  of  Jehovah.  Other  resemblances  are  scattered 
through  Paradise  Lost.  The  conversations  between  Gain  and 
Lucifer,  especially  the  passages  relating  to  revelations  of  the 
future,  owe  something  to  the  talks  between  Adam  and  Michael 
in  the  eleventh  and  twelfth  books.  I  cannot  see,  however, 
that  the  revelation  to  Adam  of  the  coming  murder  of  Abel 
(XI,  429  f.)  had  any  influence  upon  Byron's  choice  of  the 
subject  for  poetic  treatment.  Adam's  dread,  though  in  ignorance, 
of  death,  expressed  in  this  passage,  in  IV,  425,  and  elsewhere, 
is  reflected  in  Gain's  anxious  questionings  into  the  mj^stery 
of  death. 

With  aU  their  points  of  relationship  the  basis  of  the  two 
poems  is  antithetical.  Milton's  is  a  vindication  of  divine  pro- 
vidence while  taking  into  account  the  existence  of  evil.  He 
is  therefore  doctrinaire]  and  the  doctrinaire  attitude  of  mind 
was  an  argumentative  position  which  Byron  ceaselessly  attacked. 
Byron  is  the  opponent  of  dogma;  he  pleads  here  as  always 
for  freedom  of  thought.  He  seeks,  as  Schaffner  says  (p.  32), 
"to  justify  the  ways  of  man  to  God,"  to  assert  man's  right  to 
the  employment  of  the  gift  of  reason.  This  is  Lucifer's  final 
message  to  Gain,  and  Byron's,  through  his  mouth,  to  humanity: 
hold  fast  to  the  one  good  gift  —  the  reason: 

*  With  the  line  "His  dark  materials  to  create  more  worlds"  (II.  916) 
cf.  Cain  I,  i,  550  f.  and  other  places.     As  he  journeys  Satan  sees  — 

"This  pendent  World,  in  bigness  as  a  star 

Of  smallest  magnitude  close  by  the  moon"  (I.  1052  f.) 

Cf .  Cain  II,  i,  28  f .     There  is  a  serious  misprint  in  Mr.  Coleridge's  text   in 

this  passage. 

"^  Cf .  also  Astolpho's  journey  to  the  moon  in  the  Orlando  Furioso  XXXIV, 

stanza  67  f .     Byron  was   well  acquainted   with  Ariosto  at  the   time   of  the 

composition  of  Cain. 


126  Chapter  Seven. 

"Let  it  not  be  overswaj^ed 
By  tyrannous  threats  to  force  you  into  faith 
'Gainst  all  external  sense  and  inward  feeling: 
Think  and  endure,  —  and  form  an  inner  world 
In  your  own  bosom"  (II,  ii,  460  f.) 

elie  same  thought  runs  all  through  Byron's  verse;  it  is  certainly 
ot  Miltonic. 

It  is  indeed  Promethean.  I  spoke  in  the  chapter  on  Manfred 
of  the  hold  which  the  legend  had  upon  Byron's  imagination.  In 
the  character  of  Gain  the  Promethean  element  is  more  apparent 
than  in  Manfred,  for  while  the  latter  has  only  the  pride  and 
resistance  of  the  titanic  conception  in  general.  Gain,  like  Pro- 
metheus, suffers  not  only  for  himself,  but  for  — 

"All  the  few  that  are. 
And  all  the  unnumbered  and  innumerable 
Multitudes,  millions,  myriads,  which  ma}'  be. 
To  inherit  agonies  accumulated 
By  ages! —  and  1  must  be  the  sire  of  such  tilings!"  (I,  i,  444f.) 

Thus  his  is  not  merel}'  egoistic  suffering  and  rebellion.  By 
anticipation  he  voices  the  sorrows  of  future  humanity.  Like 
Prometheus  and  Faust  he  is  "a  S3'mbol  and  a  sign  to  mortals 
of  their  fate  and  force."  He  has  the  instinctive  assertion  of 
freedom  against  the  limitations  of  fate.^ 

The  Faust  element  in  Cain  is  not  confined  to  the  general 
kinship  of  their  protagonists.  There  are  distinctly  Mepliisto- 
phelean  traits  mingled_with  the  Satanic  attributes  of  Lucifer. 
Tills  apjjears  in  the  occasional  outbursts  of  mocker}^  in  the 
midst  of  the  solemnity  and  occasional  sublimity  of  his  discourse. 
Schaffner  compares  the  Lucifer-Gain  combination  with  Mephisto- 
Faust.  In  both  sets  of  circumstances  we  see  the  sj'stematic 
misleading  of  a  human  soul  through  the  representative  of  the 
principle  of  evil.  But  whereas  Goethe  has  made  his  Mephisto 
an  abstraction  of  scorn  and  denial,  one  among  the  "Geistern, 
die  verneinen,"  Byron  has  endowed  Lucifer  with  personality, 
even  with  sympathy.  There  are  critics^  who  compare  the 
position    of  Adah    with  relation    to  Gain    to    that    of  Gretchen 

*  Schaffner,  p.  4. 

2  M.  Eimer,  "Byrons  Beziehungen  zur  deutschen  Kultur,"  Anglia 
XXXVI,  442  f. 


Cain  aQd  Heaven  and  Earth.  127 

with  relation  to  Faust.  Both  are  in  their  pious  faith  in  sliarp 
contrast  to  their  lovers  who  alike  exjjress  the  extreme  of 
scepticism;  the  innocence  of  both  women  forces  them  instinct- 
ively to  shun  with  terror  the  spirit  of  evil.  l>vron  himself 
saw  the  analojjj}'  between  the  Faust  and  Cain  themes,  but  he 
said,  "Faust  itself  is  not  so  fine  a  subject  as  Cain."^      . — 

In  the  seventh  canto  of  James  Montgomery's  The  World 
before  the  Flood,^  1813,  Enoch  tells  Javan  of  the  muider  of 
Abel  l)y  Cain.  The  narrative  closely  follows  the  scriptural 
version.  It  is  quite  unimpressive.  Byron  had  probabl}-  read 
it.     One  of  the  characters  is  named  Zillah. 

To  Bayle's  Historical  and  Critical  Dictionary  Byron  was 
indebted  for  some  of  his  most  heterodox  opinions.  He  knew  , 
the  book  well  and  owned  a  copy  of  the  English  translation  J 
of  1734,  which  was  sold  with  his  other  books  in  1816.  He 
made  use  of  the  Dictionarij  in  Childe  Harold,  The  Giaour,  The 
Vision  of  Judymmt,  and  other  places.  That  he  used  a  later 
French  edition  after  his  departure  from  Europe  is  shown  b}' 
a  note  to  Childe  Harold  (P.  II,  502),  in  which  he  quotes  a 
passage  in  French,  and  refers  to  Ba3^1e  as  "one  of  the  best 
men,  and  perhaps  the  best  critic  that  ever  lived  —  the  very 
\mart3'r  to  impartiahty."  The  most  important  ideas  abstracted 
fi'om  Bayle  were  those  relating  to  Manicheism  and  the  origin 
of  evil,  especially  the  article  "Paulicians"  and  the  appendix 
on  the  Manichees.  Bajle  is  not,  however,  so  much  a  source 
of  Cain  as  the  authority  whence  Bj-ron  derived  certain  ideas 
which  he  incorporated  in  Cain. 

In  Byron's  letters  there  are  two  important  passages  referring 
to  Cain  that  must  be  quoted  at  length.  "It  is  in  the  Manfred 
metaphysical  style,  and  full  of  some  Titanic  declamation;  — 
Lucifei'  being  one  of  the  dram,  pers.,  who  takes  Gain  a  voyage 
among  the  stars,  and  afterwards  to  "Hades,"  where  he  shows 
him  the  phantoms  of  a  former  world,  and  its  inhabitants.  I 
have  gone  upon  the  notion  of  Cuvier,  that  the  world  has  been 
destroyed  three  or  four  times,  and  was  inhabited  by  mammoths, 
behemoths,  and  what  not;  but  not  b}'  man  till  the  Mosaic 
period,  as,  indeed,  is  proved  by  the  strata  of  bones  found ;  — 

1  Medwin,  p.  129. 

^  Poetical  Works,  1841,  II,  1  f.    The  passage  referred  to  is  on  p.  91  f . 


V 


128  Chapter  Seven. 

those  of  all  unknown  animals,  and  known,  being  dug  out,  but 
none  of  mankind,  I  have,  therefore,  supposed  Cain  to  be 
shown,  in  the  rational  Preadamites,  beings  endowed  with  a 
higher  intelligence  than  man,  but  totally  unlike  him  in  form, 
and  with  much  greater  strength  of  mind  and  person.  You 
may  suppose  the  small  talk  which  takes  place  between  him 
and  Lucifer  upon  these  matters  is  not  quite  canonical.  The 
consequence  is,  that  Cain  comes  back  and  kills  Abel  in  a  fit 
of  dissatisfaction,  partly  with  the  politics  of  Paradise,  which 
had  driven  them  all  out  of  it,  and  partly  because  (as  it  is 
written  in  Genesis)  Abel's  sacrifice  was  the  more  acceptable  to 
the  Deity.  I  trust  that  the  Rhapsody  has  arrived  —  it  is  in 
three  acts,  and  entitled  "A  Mystery,"  according  to  the  former 
Christian  custom,  and  in  honour  of  what  it  probably  will  remain 
to  the  reader"  (LJ.  V,  368).  The  other  passage  is  more  signi- 
ficant. "Cain  is  a  proud  man:  if  Lucifer  promised  him  king- 
doms, etc.,  it  would  elate  him:  the  object  of  the  Demon  is  to 
depress  him  still  further  in  his  own  estimation  than  he  was 
before,  by  showing  him  infinite  things  and  his  own  abasement, 
till  he  falls  into  the  frame  of  mind  that  leads  to  the  catastrophe, 
from  mere  internal  irritation,  not  premeditation,  or  envy  of 
Abel  (which  would  have  made  him  contemptible),  but  from 
the  rage  and  iwvy  against  the  inadequacy  of  his  state  to  his 
conceptions,  and  which  discharges  itself  rather  against  Life, 
and  the  author  of  Life,  than  the  mere  living"  (LJ.  V,  470). 

"The  inadequacy  of  his  state  to  his  conceptions"  —  in  a  few 

words  Byron  has  comprehended  the  central  idea  of  the  poem.      ] 

Cain  is  one  of  those  —  .      J'     i 

"Whose  intellect  is  an  o'er  mastering  power  "^y 

Which  still  recoils  from  its  encumbering  cla}^"* 

At  the  foundation  of  his  character  and  of  the  poem  is  the  theme 
i/  of  the  ceaseless  struggle  of  mind  and  matter  which  forms  so 
important  an  element  of  Byron's  conception  of  tragedy  and 
which  is  dwelt  upon  in  Manfred.  Closely  connected  with  it 
is  the  constantjingering  on  the  thouglit  of  frail  mortalit3\  A 
verbal  concordance  to  Byron  would  show  many  occurrences 
jof^the   words   "aust"   and   "clay."     In  Cain  the   former   word 


,W' 


*■  The  Prophecy  of  Dante  IV,  21  f. 


Cain  and  Heaven  and  Earth.  129 

occurs  sixteen  times  and  the  latter  nine.  Nature  has  given  a 
form  of  flesh  only,  it  would  seem,  that  thereby  the  soul  may 
be  clogged. '  The  finest  expression  of  this  struggle  of  the  soul 
against  the  barriers  of  human  life,  against  the  limitations  of 
mortalit}-,  occurs  in  Childe  Harold:  ^-^ 

"There  is  a  fire  \        ^ 

And  motion  of  the  Soul  which  will  not  dwell   ) 
In  its  own  narrow  being,  but  aspii'e 
Beyond  the  fitting  medium  of  desire"  (III,  42). 

Lucifer  finds  Gain  in  such  a  mood. 

"I  look 
Around  a  world  where  I  seem  nothing,  with 
Thoughts  which  arise  within  me  as  if  they 
Gould  master  aU  things"  (I,  i,  175  f.) 

Lucifer  essays  to  intensify  this  mood.  The  journey  across  the 
Abyss  of  Space  and  tlu'ough  Hades  sets,  not  only  Gain's  passions 
and  desires,  but  the  very  earth  of  which  he  is  but  a  fragment 
of  dust,  against  the  background  of  eternity  and  infinite  space. 
This  is  finely  imagined.  As  they  recede  from  the  earth  it  is 
seen  first  as  a  small  circle  with  the  moon  beside  it  (II,  i,  25  f.), 
then  as  a  faint  spark  no  bigger  than  a  fire-fly  (II,  i,  123),  and 
at  last  it  disappears  altogether  (II,  i,  145  f.)  Guvier's  theory, 
referred  to  in  the  first  passage  quoted  above,  is  made  use  of 
to  increase  this  sense  of  the  littleness  of  humanity.  Lucifer 
constantly  reiterates  the  mightiness  of  the  former  world  of 
which  our  world  is  but  the  wreck.  ^  Thus  Gain's  mind  is 
brought  through  successive  stages  of  abasement.  At  first  he 
Is  conscious,  like  Manfred  (II,  ii,  llOj,  of  "a  mind  to  comprehend 
the  universe."     He  tells  Lucifer: 

"I  see  thy  power. 
And  see  thou  showest  me  things  beyond  my  power, 
^Although  inferior  still  to  my  desires 
^hd  my  conceptions"  (II,  i,  79  f.) 

But  when  he  sees  the  insignificance  of  himself  and  his  world 
"when  placed  in  competition  with  the  mighty  whole,  of  which 


^  Lara,  1.  333. 

■^  The  foundation  of  this  idea  in  Byron's  poetry  is,  I  think,  the  frequent 
references  to  the  Preadamite  sultans  in  Beckford's  Vathek,  a  book  which 
influenced  Byron  greatly. 

Hosperia,  B.  3.  9 


130  Chapter  Seven. 

it  is  an  atom"  (LJ.  II,  222),  when  the  noisy  years  of  human 
hfe  are  reduced  to  moments  in  the  being  of  the  eternal  silence, 
Gain  is  brought  to  admit  that  he  seems  "nothing;"  to  which 
Lucifer  replies: 

j/  "And  this  should  be  the  human  sum 

Of  knowledge,  to  know  mortal  nature's  nothingness" 

(II,  ii,  421  f.) 

It  is  in  such  a  mood  that  Gain,  in  slaying  Abel,  vents  his  rage 
against  the  Author  of  life.  The  same  sort  of  sudden  impulse, 
swiftly  changing  to  an  outburst  of  lyrical  tenderness,  had 
previously  appeared  when  he  threatened  to  dash  his  child 
against  the  rocks  rather  than  let  him  live  to  propagate  misery 

(in,  i,  125). 

For  Gain  is  no  murderer  at  heart;  he  is,  one  must  repeat, 
as  far  as  possible  from  the  jealous  ruffian  of  earlier  conceptions 
of  the  character.  There  is  much  of  gentleness  and  nobility 
in  his  nature,  and  his  love  is  always  apparent.  In  the  first 
scene,  despite  the  adverse  position  which  he  takes  as  to  the 
worship  of  Jehovah,  he  tells  Abel  and  his  sisters,  "Your  gentleness 
must  not  be  harshly  met"  (I,  i,  61).  His  heart  leaps  "kindly 
back  to  kindness."  *  His  love  of  Adah  (see  especially  II,  ii,  265  f.) 
resists  the  Mephistophelean  insinuations  of  Lucifer  (II.  ii,  323  f.) 
His  love  of  the  beauties  of  the  natural  world  is  unfaLhug,"  and 
his  discontent  is  in  no  wise  with  that  world.  His  inclinations 
and  desires  are  for  the  good;  "I  thirst  for  good!"  he  cries 
,(II,  ii,  238).  His  selfcontrol  is  perfect  when  Abel  urges  him 
/  to  the  sacrifice  (III,  i,  188  f.),  and  there  is  no  sign  of  jealousy. 
/7  I  It  is  therefore,  I  think,  an  artistic  flaw  of  some  magnitude 
that  Byron  introduces  the  incident  of  Gain's  agitation  at  Lucifer's 
suggestion  that  Abel's  sacrifices  are  the  more  acceptable  (II,  ii, 
353  f.)  This  derives  fi'om  the  conception  of  jealousy  as  the 
motive  of  the  murder,  which  Byron  deliberately  discarded,  and 
it  should  not  have  been  employed. 

The  chief  flaw  in  the  poem  from  the  technical  point  of 
view  is  that  Lucifer  is  but  a  glorified  Gain,  "changed  not  in 
kind  but  in  degree."    There  is  no  dramatic  contrast,  no  struggle 


1  Childe  Harold  IE,  53. 

«  See  especially  I,  i,  281;  II,  i,  98;  II,  ii,  124. 


Cain  and  Heaven  and  Earth.  131 

between  good  and  evil.  Lucifer  does  not  have  to  win  Cain 
over  to  his  side.  This  has  been  frequently  commented  upon; 
a  single  illustration  of  Cain's  accord  with  Lucifer  may  be 
given. 

"Cain:  Dost  thou  love  nothing? 
Luc:  What  does  thy  God  love? 

Cain:  All  things,  my  father  says;  but  I  confess 

I  see  it  not  in  their  allotment  here"  (II,  ii,  310f.) 

There  is  no  conflict  here,  as  there  would  have  been  had  the 
last  clause  of  Cain's  reply  been  assigned  to  Lucifer,  who  is 
trying  to  convince  Cain.  Here  and  in  many  other  places 
tempter  and  tempted  are  absolutely  at  one.  Both  oppose, 
while  acknowledging  His  existence,  the  Principle  of  good. 

Byron's  contention  that  Lucifer's  exaltation  of  the  "two 
Principles"  was  merely  dramatic,  that  he  was  speaking  in 
character,  was,  I  think,  a  point  well  taken.  Nowhere  else  in 
his  poetry  is  there  any  sign  of  belief  in  the  co-eternal  existence 
of  good  and  ill,  "both  infinite  as  is  the  universe."^  The 
Manicheistic  doctrine  of  the  principles  of  light  and  darkness, 
good  and  evil,  had  been  hinted  at  in  Manfred.^  Elsewhere 
Byron  says: 

"That  same  devilish  doctrine  of  the  Persian,    \  ^ 
Of  the  two  principles,  but  leaves  behind 
As  many  doubts  as  any  other  doctrine."' 
Manicheism  becomes  a  leading  motive  in  Cai7i.    Lucifer  alone 
(not  a  disinterested  witness)  promulgates  the  doctrine,  but  no 
attempt  is  made  to  refute  it  through  the  mouth  of  any  of  the 
other  characters.    Byron  had  progressed  far  since  the  compo- 
sition of  Manfred.    There,  as  I  have  noted,  the  revolt  is  against 
the   forces    of  evil    that   govern   the    world,    and    there    is  no 
rebellion  against  the  "other  powers."    The  implied  Manicheism 
is  now  open  and  there  is  deliberate  questioning  of  the  justice 
and  love  of  the  self-proclaimed  Principle  of  good. 

Yet  Byron  had  been  "bred  a  moderate  Presbyterian"* 
and    the    earliest   references   to    the   Deity   in   his    poems   are 


^  Shellej'-,  Prometheus  Unbound  I,  i,  294  —  a  line  which  is  contradicted 
by  the  spirit  and  meaning  of  the  entire  drama! 
^  Note  especially  II,  iv,  114  f. 
»  Don  Juan  XIII,  41. 
*  Ihid.  XV,  91. 

9* 


132  Chapter  Seven. 

pious  and  orthodox!  "I'll  ne'er  submission  to  my  God  refuse," 
he  writes  (P.  I.  6),  and  again: 

"I  ne'er  shall  presume  to  arraign  the  decree 
Which  God  has  proclaim'd  as  the  fate  of  his  creatures" 

(P.  I,  24). 

In  the  Hst  of  books  read  by  Byron  (1807),  printed  by  Moore 
(I,  79 — 81),  the  entry  under  "Divinity"  is  as  follows:  "Blair, 
Porteus,  Tillotson,  Hooker,  —  all  very  tiresome.  I  abhor  books 
of  religion,  though  I  reverence  and  love  my  God,  without  the 
blasphemous  notions  of  sectaries,  or  belief  in  then  absurd  and 
damnable  heresies,  mysteries,  and  Thirty-nine  Articles." 

The  Prayer  of  Nature  shows  an  early  drift  towards 
Pantheism,  but  this  poem  I  believe  to  be  an  imitation  of  Pope. 
While  in  the  East  Byron  went  through  a  period  of  pronounced 
scepticism,  with  special  reference  to  the  immortality  of  the 
soul,  the  chief  record  of  which  is  the  opening  of  Childe  Harold 
n  (stanzas  1  to  9).  The  drift  is  towards  deism,  for  he  never 
denied  the  existence  of  God  and  remained  sceptical  as  to 
immortality.  During  the  Swiss  sojourn  he  again  experienced  a 
period  of  pantheism,  but  this,  as  I  shall  show  in  a  later  chapter, 
was  due  to  external  influences  and  never  became  part  of  his 
real  convictions.  The  pantheistic  fervor  passed  and  left  Byron, 
as  it  found  him,  a  deist.  In  Sardanapalus  there  is  constant 
and  remarkable  expression  of  scepticism  as  to  immortality, 
but  in  his  latest  opinions  (e.  g.  LJ.  V,  456  f.)  there  is  evidence 
of  gradual  gi'owth  of  his  belief  in  immortality.  It  is  significant 
that  both  Manfred  and  Cain  emphatically  affu^m  the  immortality 
of  the  soul  and  its  personal  identity  and  responsibility  in 
another  existence.  "Nothing  is  more  common,"  he  wrote  late 
in  life  (LJ.  V,  490),  "than  for  the  early  sceptic  to  end  in  a 
firm  belief."  The  assault  in  Cain  is  made,  not  against  religious 
belief,  but  against  orthodoxy  as  proclaimed  by  priests,  who, 
with  soldiers,  composed  "the  most  dangerous  orders  of  mankind." 
The  mood,  though  less  scathing,  is  that  of  Swinburne's  Before 
a  Crucifix: 

"Because  of  whom  we  dare  not  love  thee; 
Though  hearts  reach  back  and  memories  ache, 
We  cannot  praise  thee  for  their  sake." 

For  Cain,   like  Manfred,    is   the    antithesis    of   the    doctrinaire 


Cain  and  Heaven  and  Earth.  133 

attitude  of  mind.    Cain  refuses,  even  before  the  visit  of  Lucifer, 

to  be  forced  into  faitli  against  external  sense  and  inward  feeling. 

When  to  all  his  questions  Adam   and  the  rest  give  the  pious 

answer,  "'Twas  his  will  and  he  is  good,"  he  replies  with  a  new 

question,  "How  know  T  that?"  Adam  and  Abel,  like  the  Abbot 

of  Saint  jMaurice,  t3-pify  obedience  to  traditionalism  and  passive  y 

acceptance  of  dogma.    Set  over  against  them  is  Gain,  proudly  "N  y2^  ) 

conscious  of  the  power  of  mind  and  imperiously  asserting  his  ^ 

right  to  make  use  of  that  power. 

There  is  a  further  contrast  between  Gain  and  Adah.  She 
is  the  typical  Byronic  woman  \  finding  her  happiness  in  the 
man  she  loves  and  concerned  only  for  his  welfare.  The  small 
duties  of  daily  life  make  up  her  world.  As  Adam  and  Abel 
represent  the  intellectual  abasement  of  mere  conformity,  so 
Adah  represents  the  attractions   of  comfortable  acquiescence.'  ^    . 

All  the  force  of  her  sweet  nature  is  put  forth  in  the  effort 
to  make  Gain  happy  in  little  joys  of  common  life  and  to  make 
him  renounce  the  vision  of  infinity  that  is  constantly  before 
his  eyes.  The  temptation  is  an  ethical  one.  On  the  one  hand 
is  verity  and  freedom,  accompanied  by  hardship  and  perhaps 
despair,  on  the  other  placid  conformity,  submission  to  com- 
fortable illusion  at  the  sacrifice  of  intellectual  freedom.  Gain's 
pV|f)ipA  ifi  ByvP-T-'i^  /"j^^^*"^  He  exhibits  the  same  integrity, 
candor,  and  "fierce  intrepid  scorn  of  compromise  and  comfort,"' 
which  informs  the  poetry  of  Byron  with  its  "splendid  and  im- 
perishable excellence  of  sincerity  and  strength." 

Is  not  this  the  final  message  of  Cain  ?  Is  it  not  an  inspiring 
one?  The  intellectual  position  taken  is  removed  as  far  as 
possible  from  that  of  the  easy  optimist  who  cultivates  his  garden 
in  tranquillity,  unmindful  of  the  problems  of  the  universe. 
Gomfortable  acquiescence  can  be  bought  only  at  the  price  of 
stilling  the  ceaseless  and  restless  activity  of  the  intellect.  Such 
a  prostitution  of  the  reason  Byron  never  submitted  to. 

*  I  may  here  note  that  I  think  Byron's  original  plan  was  to  contrast 
the  characters  of  Adah  and  Zillah  in  the  same  way  as  he  later  did  those 
of  Anah  and  Aholibamah.  One  cannot  else  account  for  the  tone  of  Zillah's 
first  speech  (I,  i,  18  f.) 

*  See  George  Rebec,  "Byron  and  Morals,"  International  Journal  of 
Ethics  XIV,  39  f. 

*  Ibid.,  p.  50. 


134  Chapter  Seven. 

'"Tis  a  base 
/     Abandonment  of  reason  to  resign 
[     Our  right  of  thought  —  our  last  and  only  place 
Of  refuge;  this,  at  least,  shall  still  be  mine."^ 

No  suffering,  no  sacrifice  is  too  great: 

"To  die 
Is  nothing;  but  to  wither  thus  —  to  tame 
My  mind  down  from  its  own  infinit}^  — 
To  live  in  narrow  ways  with  little  men"*  — 

this  Byron  never  brought  himself  to  do.  And,  as  Mr.  Rebec 
says  (p.  53),  "amid  the  slip-shod  complaisant  millions  of  us, 
the  meed  of  praise  be  his  for  it!" 

Heaven  and  Earth. 

Byron's  unfinished  second  Mystery  is  a  further  study  of 
the  same  themes  that  inspired  Cain.  Perhaps  the  most  notable 
thing  about  the  piece  is  that  it  should  have  been  one  of  four 
poems  on  the  same  subject  written  at  nearly  the  same  time 
and  almost,  if  not  quite,  independently. 

Heaven  and  Earth  was  begun  at  Ravenna  on  the  ninth  of 
October,  1821,  according  to  Medwin  (p.  231).  "It  occupied 
about  fourteen  days."  On  November  14,'  it  was  enclosed  in  a 
letter  to  Murray  (LJ.  V,  473).  During  the  next  few  months 
Byron  refers  to  it  fi'om  time  to  time  in  his  letters.  "The  new 
Mystery  is  less  spectacular  than  Cain  and  very  pious"  (LJ.  VI, 
81);  "I  believe  the  new  Mystery  is  pious  enough;  but  if  anything 
wants  softening  here  and  there  send  me  an  extract"  (VI,  47). 
He  seems  to  have  wished  to  publish  it  along  with  the  three 
plays  in  the  Sardanapalus  volume.  Later  he  planned  to  publish 
it  with  Werner  and  some  smaller  pieces.  But  the  matter  hung 
fire;  Murray  printed  the  poem,  but  delayed  publication  from 
month  to  month.  Byron's  growing  impatience  is  shown  in 
his  letters*,  but  Murray  continued  cautious.  To  Medwin  Byron 
remarked  (p.  231),  "Kinnaird  teUs  me  that  he  can  get  no 
bookseller  to  publish  it.     It  was  offered  to  Murray;   but  he  is 


1  Childe  Harold  IV,  127. 

=  The  Prophecy  of  Dante  I,  158  f . 

8  Not  9,  as  E.  H.  Coleridge  (P.  V,  279)  wrongly  states.    See  LJ.  V,  473. 

■'  See,  e.  g.,  LJ.  VI,  50  and  54. 


Cain  and  Heaven  and  Earth.  135 

the  most  timid  of  God's  booksellers,  and  starts  at  the  title. 
He  has  taken  a  dislike  to  that  three-syllabled  word  ^Mystery 
and  says,  I  know  not  why,  that  it  is  another  Cain.''  By  the 
end  of  October,  1822*,  Byron's  patience  was  gone  and  he  had 
the  poem  transferred  to  John  Hunt,  who  published  it  in  the 
second  number  of  The  Liberal,  January  1,   1823. 

As  early  as  1813  the  first  suggestion  of  the  theme  appears 
in  BjTon's  writings.  "I  have  been  thinking,"  he  told  Moore 
(LJ.  II,  255),  "of  a  story,  grafted  on  the  amours  of  a  Peri  and 
a  mortal."  This  idea  he  abandoned  because  he  had  not  the 
requisite  "tenderness."  In  Manfred  (III,  ii,  5  f.)  there  is  a  re- 
ference to  — 

"the  giant  sons 
Of  the  embrace  of  angels,  with  a  sex 
More  beautiful  than  they." 

The  choice  of  the  theme  for  dramatic  treatment  followed  logic- 
ally from  Cain.  The  piece  is  a  fragment,  for  Byron  planned 
a  second  part  which  he  outlined  to  Medwin  (if  the  latter  can 
be  trusted),  who  printed  it  in  his  Conversations  (p.  154' f.)* 

B}Ton  noted  on  the  title-page  that  the  Mystery  was 
"Founded  on  the  following  passage  in  Genesis,  Chap.  VI.  1.  2. 
,And  it  came  to  pass  .  .  .  that  the  sons  of  God  saw  the  daughters 
of  men  that  they  were  fair;  and  they  took  them  wives  of  all 
which  they  chose.' "  These  verses  are  perhaps  the  oldest  relics 
of  legend  embedded  in  the  BibHcal  narrative.  The  meaning 
has  been  disputed.  One  view  is  that  "the  sons  of  God"  are 
the  children  of  Seth,  who  became  corrupted  by  marriage  with 
the  Cainites;  but  it  is  not  easy  to  see  why  the  offspring  of 
such  unions  should  be  the  "giants  in  those  days"  of  verse  4. 
On  the  other  hand  such  offspring  were  popularly  attributed  in 
many  Eastern  tales  to  the  marriage  of  women  with  deities  and 
demons;  and  it  is  certain  that  the  phrase  "sons  of  God"  is 
synonymous  with  "angels"  in  Job  (I,  6;  XXXVIII,  7)  and  in 
Dariiel  (III,  25,  R.  V.)  In  any  case  this  is  the  meaning  accepted 
by  Byron.     Mayn  (p.  18)  points  out  that  Milton   uses  the  ex- 


^  Not  1821,  as  E.  H.  Coleridge  wrongly  states. 

'^  With   the   error    of    calling  "Anah"    "Adah,"    which   Coleridge,    who 
reprints  the  outline  (P.  V,  321,  note),  fails  to  comment  upon  or  correct. 


136  Chapter  Seven. 

pression  in  both  senses/  Byron's  only  other  direct  indebtedness 
to  the  Bible  is  for  the  names  of  his  dramatis  personae.  Japheth 
is  mentioned  in  Genesis  (VII,  13)  as  a  son  of  Noah,  but  Irad 
Byron  gets  from  IV,  18,  where  the  name  occurs  as  that  of 
Enoch's  father,  and  Anah  and  Aholibamah  from  XXXVI,  2. 

The  other  source  of  Heaven  and  Earth  is  the  apocryphal 
Book  of  EnochJ  In  the  earliest  years  of  our  era  this  book 
had  been  held  in  high  regard  by  both  Jews  and  Christians, 
but  because  of  the  Messianic  predictions  therein  contained  it 
was  rejected  by  later  Hebrew  authorities  and  was  rigidly 
ignored  by  the  Talmud.  It  feU  into  disfavor  among  Christians 
also,  except  in  Abyssinia,  where  it  kept  some  of  its  early 
prestige  and  where  consequently  some  MSS  were  preserved. 
James  Bruce,  the  famous  explorer,  discovered  two  or  three 
such.''  One  he  presented  to  the  Library  at  Paris,  another  to 
the  Bodleian.  In  1801  a  "Notice  du  Livre  d'Enoch"  by 
A.  J.  Silvestre  de  Sacy  in  the  Magazin  Ency doped ique*  called 
attention  to  the  value  and  interest  of  the  discoverj'^,  but  not 
till  1821  did  the  first  translation  of  the  book  appear.  This 
was  by  Richard  Laurence,  at  Oxford.  An  important  fragment 
of  a  lost  Greek  translation  of  the  lost  Semitic  original  was, 
however,  already  well  known,  as  it  had  been  preserved  in  the 
Chronographia  of  Georgius  SynceUus,  a  Byzantine  writer  of  the 
eighth  century.  This  fragment,  Concerning  the  Watchers^  Byron 
certainly  knew.  In  it  occur  the  names  Semjaza,  Azazel,  and 
Rafael,  which  are  of  course  Byron's  Samiasa,  Azaziel,  and 
Raphael.  The  problem  as  to  whether  Byron  knew  Laurence's 
translation  of  the  complete  book  has  been  answered  in  the 
affhmative  by  Manfred  Eimer,®  not  so   much  by   the  resem- 


'  Paradise  Lost  V,  447;  XI,  622. 

^  See  Dictionary  of  the  Bible,  ed.  James  Hastings,  Edinburgh,  T.  and 
T.  Clarke:  art.  "Enoch,  Book  of,"  I,  705  f. 

*  In  1771  according  to  the  Diet.  Nat.  Biog.;  1773,  according  to  Hastings; 
1785,  according  to  E.  H.  Coleridge  (P  V.  302). 

*  Tome  I,  p.  382  f.  See  also  Richard  Laurence,  The  Book  of  Enoch 
the  Prophet:  an  Apocryphal  Production,  Oxford,  1821,  p.  169  f 

^  The  History  of  the  Seventy-ttvo  Interpreters,  with  the  History  of 
the  Angels  and  their  Gallantry  with  the  Daughters  of  Men,  written  by 
Enoch  the  Patriarch,  1715. 

«  Eng.  Stud.  XLIV,  18  f . 


Cain  and  Heaven  and  Earth.  137 

blances  which  he  finds  therein  to  Heaven  and  Earth  as  by  the 
notable  parallels  to  Cain. 

The  flood  is  represented  in  the  Old  French  Viel  Testament, 
and  in  the  Chester,  Towneley,  Coventry,  and  York  plays; 
but  from  all  these  Bj-ron  is  far  away  in  matter,  method,  style, 
and  purpose.  I  refer  to  them  onl}^  to  show  the  lastingness  of 
the  subject  in  dramatic  literature/ 

Byron's  devotion  to  Pope  makes  it  just  possible  that  he 
may  have  received  a  suggestion  as  to  the  theme  from  the 
following  note  to  The  Rape  of  the  Lock,  I,  145:  "Ancient 
traditions  of  the  Rabbi's  {sic)  relate,  that  several  of  the  fallen 
angels  became  amorous  of  women,  and  particularize  some; 
among  the  rest  Asael,"  etc. 

From  James  Montgomery's  The  World  before  the  Flood  and 
George  Croly's  The  Angel  of  the  World,  1820,^  Byron  probably 
obtained  suggestions.  Montgomery  accepts  the  interpretation 
of  the  "sons  of  God"  as  referring,  not  to  angels,  but  to  the 
descendants  of  Seth.  Croly's  poem  tells  the  story  of  the  angel 
who  drank  wine  and  revealed  to  a  woman  the  secret  whereby 
he  caused  his  wings  to  grow;  the  woman  thereupon  turns 
into  the  terrible  Eblis,  who  had  assumed  a  seductive  form  to 
tempt  the  angel  to  sin.  This  story,  with  a  different  catastrophe, 
was  used  by  Moore.  Croly's  poem  is  of  no  value,  but  it  is 
likely  that  his  unsuccessful  handling  of  the  theme  suggested  its 
treatment  by  three  subsequent  writers.' 

The  influence  of  Faust  upon  Heaven  and  Earth  was  very 
slight.  Knobbe,*  following  Medwin,  thinks  that  Japhet's  collo- 
quy with  the  evil  spirits  (I,  iii,  55  f.)  may  owe  something  to 
the  "Wald  und  Hohle"  scene.  Possibly;  but  the  resemblance 
is  slight.  Eimer"  thinks  that  he  finds  indebtedness  to  Goethe 
in  the  metrical  form  of  some  of  the  choruses. 


^  The  first  section  of  Mayn's  monograph  is  a  brief  account  of  Fratri- 
cide and  the  Flood  in  Old  French  and  Middle  English  Mysteries  (p.  3—14). 

"^  Poetical   Works,  1820,  I,  177  f. 

'  See  S.  C.  Chew,  Jr.,  "Byron  and  Croly,"  Modern  Lang.  Notes 
XXVIII,  201  f. 

*  A.  Knohbe,  Die  Faust-idee  in  Lord  Byrons  Dichtungen,  Stral  sund 
1906,  p.  17. 

"  Anglia  XXXVI,  443. 


138  Chapter  Seven. 

Moore's  Loves  of  the  Angels  was  published  on  December  23, 
1822,  eight  days  before  Heaven  and  Earth.  The  poems  were, 
apparently,  begun  quite  independently,  though  when  Moore 
was  in  Italy  in  1821  he  and  Byron  may  have  talked  over  the 
theme  as  one  fit  for  poetic  treatment.  Moore  at  first  planned 
a  long  poem,  but  when  he  heard  of  Byron's  plans  he  decided 
to  guard  his  thunder  by  restricting  himself  to  three  episodes. 
The  work  was  very  successful;  by  the  middle  of  Januar}'  Moore 
was  turning  his  angels  into  Turks  to  be  rid  of  the  uncomfortable 
associations  with  religion ;  ^  his  journal  has  numerous  references 
to  his  success.  The  reviewers  of  the  time  naturally  noticed 
B}Ton's  and  Moore's  poems  together,  and  they  have  remained 
joined  in  literary  history,  so  that  any  study  of  Byron's  Mystery 
must  contain  some  account  of  Moore's  poem.**  My  remarks 
are  as  restricted  as  possible. 

The  Loves  of  the  Angels^  is  a  group  of  three  stories,  all 
going  back  ultimately  to  Genesis  VI,  1,  2.  The  first  angel  is 
most  contaminated  with  this  "sin-worn  mold."  His  story  is  that 
of  the  drunken  angel*  who  reveals  the  secret  to  a  woman.  She, 
instead  of  resolving  into  Eblis,  as  in  Groly's  poem,  pronounces 
the  formula  and  is  translated  to  a  star,  thus  escaping  from  his 
embrace.  The  second  angel  is  of  a  nobler  tj^pe.  Against  the 
commands  of  God  he  remains  on  earth  where  he  has  fallen  in 
love  with  Lilis.  There  he  discards  his  celestial  splendor.  One 
day  Lilis  begs  him  to  appear  in  the  cherubic  garb  of  flame  in 
which  she  first  beheld  him,  and  he,  knowing  that  the  heavenly 
flame  is  harmless,  assumes  his  glory.  Dazzled  by  the  light, 
she  comes  to  his  arms.  But  sin  has  changed  the  pure  fire  to 
an  earthly  and  devouring  element,  and  at  his  touch,  there, 
before  his  eyes,  she  is  quickly  consumed  to  ashes.  He  is 
doomed  to  remain  on  the  earth.  The  career  of  the  third  angel 
is  more  edifying.    He  had  married  a  woman  before  "religion's 

^  Lord  John  Russell,  Memoirs  . . .  of  Thomas  Moore,  Boston,  1853, 
IV,  40. 

2  Josef  Zuck,  Thomas  Moore's  ''The  Loves  of  the  Angels"  und  Lord 
Byron's  "Heaven  and  Earth."  Eine  Par  allele,  Vienna  1905;  Mayn, 
p.  42—7. 

"  Poetical  Works  of  Thomas  Moore,  New  York.  n.  d.,  p.  1—26. 

*  See  E.  Koeppel,  "Die  Engel  Harut  und  Marut  in  der  englischen  Dich- 
tung,"  Eng.  Stud.  XXXVII,  461  f. 


Cain  and  Heaven  and  Earth.  139 

altar,"  and  their  only  punishment  is  the  prolongation  of  life 
on  earth  till  the  end  of  time.  In  the  end  they  will  be  received 
into  heaven. 

Comparison  of  this  poem  with  Heaven  and  Earth  is  fruitful. 
The  two  writers  have  produced  w^ork  utterly  different  in  style, 
manner,    attitude,   and   thought.     Byron   is   definitely  Biblical;  > 

"I  am  a  great  reader  and  admirer  of  those  books,  .  .  .  that  I  jj 
is  to  say  the  Old  Testament,"  he  told  Murray  (LJ.  V,  391). 
Moore's  firm  religious  belief  led  to  a  hesitancy  to  treat  a  theme 
even  remotely  connected  with  religion ;  hence  the  non-Biblical 
atmosphere  of  The  Loves  of  the  Angels.  He  is  content  to  tell 
his  simple  stories  without  involving  in  them  the  deep  questions 
which  occupied  B3^ron's  mightier  spirit.  Take,  for  example, 
the  second  angel's  story.  Rubi's  mistress  is  suddenly  destroyed 
in  a  horrible  manner  and  her  lover  only  exclaims  mea  culpa! 
An  angel  of  Bj^on's  creation  would  have  asked  ivhy  it  is  "in 
heaven  a  crime  to  love  too  well";  in  fact  Aholibamah  does  ask: 

"And  where  is  the  impiety  of  loving 

Celestial  natures?"  (I,  i,  10 f.) 
The  setting  of  the  two  poems  is  different.  Byron's  play  does 
not  belong  in  the  category  of  his  Eastern  Tales,  though  it 
comes  from  the  East.  Moore,  on  the  other  hand,  had  not  for- 
gotten Byron's  advice  to  "stick  to  the  East"  (LJ.  II,  255). 
In  substance  as  in  sources  his  poem  is  oriental  and  from  the 
outset  his  angels  were  in  a  fair  way  to  become  Turks!  God; 
is  Allah,  Satan  Eblis,  the  various  parts  of  the  other  world  have 
Eastern  names.  Maidens  bathe  in  brooks  with  oriental  equa- 
nimity; the  customs  described  are  of  the  conventional  oriental 
kind.  A  third  point  of  contrast  is  the  tone  of  the  two  pieces ; 
Byron's  is  pessimistic,  Moore's  optimistic.  Byron's  lovers  all 
go  to  destruction;  there  is  no  milder  fate  for  the  meek  Anah 
than  for  the  defiant  Aholibamah.  This  is  a  subtle  attack  on 
the  justice  of  the  Most  High.  Moore,  by  differentiating  between 
the  dooms  of  the  several  lovers,  exalts  the  justice  of  Allah. 
In  arranging  their  pairs  of  lovers  Byron  sought  to  gain 
dramatic  contrast  by  giving  the  sterner  woman  to  the  meeker 
angel  and  vice  versa,  Moore  to  gain  romantic  harmony  (except 
in  the  case  of  the  first  angel  where  his  material  was  ready  to 
hand)  by  "assimilating  his  pairs  of  lovers."     Lilis  is  a  worthy 


140  Chapter  Seven. 

mate  of  Rubi,  Nama  of  Zaraph.  Byron,  as  always,  is  occupied 
with  Nature  as  well  as  man;  Moore  thinks  of  natural  scenery 
as  a  nicely  painted  background  for  his  pretty  little  people.  In 
Heaven  and  Earth  there  is,  as  Brandes  says  (IV,  223),  "a  glorification 
of  the  lust  of  annihilation;"  Moore  never  so  much  as  whispers 
that  these  sweet  sinners  of  his  are  the  cause  of  the  deluge, 
and  much  less  does  he  exult  therein!  Finally,  the  central  idea 
of  the  two  pieces  is  utterly  different.  Byron  is  concerned 
with  the  littleness  of  man  and  the  injustice  of  almighty  power; 
Moore  shows  the  all-sufficing  influence  of  holy  love.  Byron's 
great  genius  reaches  even  in  this  fragment  the  point  of  view 
of  humanity ;  Moore,  more  thoroughly  than  he  knew,  is  restricted 
to  three  episodes.     His  is  not  a  universal  voice.  ^ 

Thomas  Dale's  Irad  and  Adah,  a  Tale  of  the  Flood,  1821, 
interprets  the  phrase  "the  sons  of  God"  as  referring  to  the 
children  of  Seth,  and  "the  daughters  of  men"  as  the  posterity 
of  Gain.  Mayn  (p.  47  f.)  gives  a  detailed  outhne  of  the  poem. 
It  is  divided  into  tliree  parts:  Guilt,  Prophecy,  and  Judgment. 
Irad  loves  Adah  against  the  commands  of  God;  Noah  prophe- 
sies the  destruction  of  the  Gainites;  storm,  earthquake,  clouds, 
are  portents  of  the  approaching  evil.  The  third  part  opens 
with  a  description  of  the  "gradually  deepening  horrors  of  the 
encroaching  sea."  The  lovers  take  refuge  on  the  highest 
mountain,  where  they  repent  and  pray  God  for  pardon.  In 
sign  of  atonement  they  are  allowed  to  die  together  before  the 
flood  reaches  them.^  Dale's  poem  is  fuU  of  Byronic  reminis- 
cences; much  of  it  is  in  the  Spenserian  stanza  made  popular 
by  Childe  Harold]  but  it  was  published  considerabl}^  earlier 
than  Heaven  and  Earth.  Hasty  criticism  might  assume  that 
Byron  had  borrowed  largely  from  Dale,  but  one  must  remember 
that  the  Mystery  had  been  long  in  Murray's  hands.  Yet  the 
recurrence  of  the  name  Irad  is  odd,  if  it  is  but  a  coincidence. 
There  are  no  other  resemblances  save  of  the  most  general  nature. 


1  The  above  paragraph  owes  much  to  Mayn  and  Zuck,  but  the  con- 
clusions represent  independent  judgment.  See  also  Edinburgh  Rev.  XXXVIII, 
42  . 

*  See  Blackwood's  Magazine  XII,  61  f. 


Cain  and  Heaven  and  Earth.  141 

The  revolt  of  Cain  is  pushed  to  the  extreme  of  defiance 
in  Heaven  and  Earth,  but  Byron  was  too  conscious  of  the 
remorselessness  of  universal  law  to  have  thought  seriously  of 
conveying  his  rebellious  heroines  and  their  angel-lovers  to 
another  star.  The  assertion  of  the  individual  will  in  opposition 
to  the  norm  of  things  is  but  the  prelude  to  destruction,  every- 
where and  alwa3's.  Had  the  second  part  of  Heaven  and  Earth 
been  written,  it  must  have  portrayed  the  death  of  the  women 
and  the  condemnation  of  the  rebel  angels. 

The  fragment  is  a  study  of  various  degrees  of  discontent  and 
rebellion  at  the  inadequacy  of  our  mortal  state.  The  brevit}'  of  the 
piece  hinders  any  development  of  character,  but  the  various  dra- 
matis personae  are  differentiated  one  from  another  with  more  skill 
than  Byron  generally  expended  upon  such  matters.  Between 
the  positions  of  Noah  and  Aholibamah  there  lies  an  interesting 
gradation  of  motive  and  conduct.  Noah,  like  Adam  before  him, 
personifies  that  doctrinaire  stultification  of  the  intellect  against 
which  B^Ton  ceaselessly  inveighs.  His  traits  are  self-confidence, 
self-righteousness,  absolute  obedience,  unhesitating  faith.  He 
is  portrayed  with  utter  lack  of  sympathy.  The  same  attributes 
are  repeated  in  more  shadowy  form  in  the  person  of  Shem. 
Then  follows  Irad,  who  loves  a  daughter  of  Gain,  but  who 
combats  w^ith  that  love  and  sternly  represses  it  in  obedience 
to  the  law  of  God.  His  brother  Japhet,  as  Gerard  (p.  99)  points 
out,  occupies  a  middle  position  in  the  drama.  He  loves  Anah, 
a  Gainite,  devotedly  and  passionately,  and  he  is  willing  to  die 
for  her;  yet  as  one  of  the  predestined  family  he  must  be  saved. 
Somewhat  Hke  him  in  character  is  Anah,  who  w^ould  gladly 
make  a  compromise  with  the  Almighty,  but  who  in  the  end 
remains  submissive  to  the  behest  of  love.  Next  to  her  stand 
the  two  disobedient  angels,  whose  characteristics  are  practi- 
cally the  same,  who  acknowledge  the  power  of  God,  yet  are 
disobedient  to  His  will.  Lastly,  apart  fi'om  all  is  the  dai'ing, 
resolute,  proud,  defiant  figure  of  Aliolibamah,  true  descendant 
of  Cain,  the  most  memorable  character  in  the  mystery. 

It  is  necessary  to  dwell  in  some  detail  on  her  character. 
The  scepticism  and  defiance  of  the  piece  are  concentrated  in 
her.  Brandes  says  (IV,  335),  "Gain's  female  counterpart  is  the 
proud    defiant  Aholibamah."     Note    her    pride    in    being   de- 


l^S  Chapter  Seven. 

scended  from  the  eldest  born  of  Adam,  her  scorn  of  the  "son 
of  Noah,"  her  acceptance  of  an  angel's  love,  not  as  an  honor 
but  as  hers  of  right,  her  confidence  in  her  control  over  Sa- 
miasa's  love.  She  is  a  noble  being,  willing  to  "dare  an  immor- 
tality of  agonies  with  Samiasa."  Her  defiance  of  God  is  no 
weak  murmur,  but  worthy  of  Satan.  One  passage  includes  all 
her  attributes.  Doubting  the  prophecy  of  the  deluge,  she  asks, 
"Who  shall  shake  these  solid  mountains,  this  firm  earth?" 
(I,  iii,  449  f.)  to  which  Japhet  replies,  "He  whose  one  word 
produced  them,"  and  she  instantly  asks,  "Who  heard  that 
word?"  Compare  Lucifer's  doubt  as  to  whether  God  really 
"made  us"  as  He  has  declared  (Cain  I,  i,  140).  Noah  and  Japhet 
have  nothing  in  common  with  her.  Irad  has  something  of  her 
spirit,  but  in  all  else  is  far  removed.  Her  sister  Anah  moves 
in  another  sphere,  for  her  adoration  of  her  lover,  while  it  leads 
her  to  destruction,  makes  her  neither  forget  nor  defy  God. 
Aholibamah  thinks  of  the  joy  she  gives  Samiasa;  Anah  of  the 
happiness  she  receives  from  Azaziel.  Aholibamah  can  face  hell 
with  Samiasa;  Anah  would  give  up  all  her  little  life  rather 
than  that  Azaziel' s  immortality  should  know  an  hour  of  pain. 

The  reason  is  clear  why  Byron  did  not  undertake  to  finish 
the  fragment.  Apart  from  the  fact  that  he  was  occupied  with 
other  affau's,  he  probably  saw  that  to  continue  would  be  to 
place  himself  on  the  horns  of  the  dilemma.  To  tell  of  the 
destruction  of  the  lovers  would  be  a  long  anti-climax  to  the 
stirring  close  of  the  first  part.  To  let  them  escape  and  "wing 
their  way  from  star  to  star"  would  leave  the  whole  problem 
hopelessly  unsolved  —  creatures  sinning  yet  unpunished,  rebels 
against  omnipotence  yet  not  crushed.  Wisely  then  he  left  the 
poem  a  fragment. 

From  the  time  of  its  publication  critics  have  remarked  on 
the  lack  of  that  scepticism  that  runs  riot  in  Cain.  How  could 
it  be  otherwise?  The  characters  are  either  marked  out  for 
special  favor  by  God,  or  doomed  to  destruction,  or  angels  who 
have  stood  in  His  presence.  There  is  no  room  for  the  ex- 
pression of  doubt.     Nevertheless  the  scepticism  is  there. 

"And  where  is  the  impiety  of  loving 
Celestial  natures?" 
asks  Aholibamah,   and  the  voice  is   the  voice  of  Byron.     The 


Werner  and  The  Deformed  Transformed.  143 

event  proves  the  impiety  of  so  doing,  —  or  shows  that  omni- 
potence can  crush  disobedience.  But  is  Byron  convinced?  Is 
it  not  once  more  Gain's  question  of  the  snake-stung  lamb?  If 
it  indeed  be  impious  to  love  celestial  natures,  why  suffer  their 
approach  to  frail  humanity?  Why  give  weak  mortals  the 
capacity  for  such  love? 


Chapter  Eight. 

Werner  and  The  Deformed  Transformed. 

We  come  now  to  two  pieces  which  the  world  has  willingly 
let  die  and  which  I  would  willingly  pass  over  in  silence.  A 
complete  study  of  Byron's  dramas  must,  however,  include  brief 
accounts  of  Werner  and  The  Deformed  Transformed. 

Werner.  ^ 

I  have  already  told  of  the  appeal  of  the  subject  of  Werner 
to  Byron  when  he  was  but  thirteen  years  old,  of  his  beginning 
a  play  on  the  same  theme  at  the  time  of  his  connection  with 
Drury  Lane,  and  of  how,  after  discarding  and  apparently  for- 
getting it  for  years,  he  took  it  up  for  a  third  time  in  1821. 
Werner  was  begun  December  18,  1821,  and  finished  January  20, 
1822.  It  is  founded  upon  "The  German's  Tale"  in  Sophia  and 
Harriet  Lee's  Canterbury  Tales.^  "Founded"  hardly  expresses 
the  facts  of  the  case,  for  Byron  followed  his  original  Tvith  the 
utmost  closeness,  and  for  the  most  part  did  little  more  than 
turn  the  prose  of  the  novel  into  very  inadequate  blank-verse. 
He  attempted  to  forestall  criticism  by  a  fi-ank  admission  of  the 
overwhelming  amount  of  his  indebtedness  (P.  V,  337  f.),  but 
this   did  not   deter  Blackwood's'  horn   pubhshing  two   vicious 

^  In  the  following  study  I  am  indebted  to  Karl  Stohsel,  Lord  Byrons 
Trauerspiel  ''Werner''  und  seine  Quelle.  Erlangen,  1891,  and  to  W.  Kluge, 
Lord  Byron's  ^'Werner  or  The  Inheritance."  Eine  dramentechnische 
Untersuchung  mit  Quellenstudium,  Leipzig,  1913.  That  two  elaborate 
studies  of  Werner  have  appeared  shows  that  its  importance  has  been  greatly 
overestimated  in  Germany. 

'  There  is  a  reprint  in  two  volumes,  Boston,  Houghton,  jMifflin,  1886. 

'  XII,  710  f.   and  782  f.     The  first  article  is  by  W.  Maginn,  and  is  re- 


144  Chapter  Eight. 

attacks  on  the  piece.  The  earlier  critique  was  directed  against 
the  mediocrity  of  the  poetry  and  the  absolute  lack  of  inven- 
tion displayed  by  Byron.  "There  is  not  one  incident  in  his 
play,  not  even  the  most  trivial,  that  is  not  to  be  found  in  the 
novel  from  which  it  is  taken;  occurring  exactly  in  the  same 
manner,  brought  about  exactly  b}^  the  same  agents,  and  pro- 
ducing exactly  the  same  effects  upon  the  plot."  It  is  easy  for 
Stohsel  (p.  7)  to  point  out  the  exaggerations  in  this  statement, 
but  the  facts  as  brought  out  by  Stohsel's  very  elaborate  com- 
parison of  the  play  with  the  novel  (p.  lOf.)  are  damning  enough. 

The  central  flaw  of  the  piece  is  its  almost  utter  lack  not 
alone  of  the  higher  reaches  of  poetry  but  of  any  poetry  at  all. 
One  is  surprised  to  find  E.  H.  Coleridge  saying  (P.  V,  328), 
"If  from  haste  or  indolence  Byron  scamped  his  task,  and  cut 
up  whole  cantles  of  the  novel  into  nerveless  and  pointless 
blank-verse,  here  and  there  throughout  the  play,  in  scattered 
lines  and  passages,  he  outdoes  himself.  The  inspiration  is  fitful, 
but  supreme."  I  have  read  Werner  several  times,  but  I  have 
not  found  those  passages  of  "supreme"  inspiration  wherein 
Byron  "outdoes  himself."  Stohsel  (p.  18)  instances  Gabor's 
monologue  in  the  secret  passage  (III,  iii)  and  the  dialogue 
between  Ida  and  Josephine  (V,  i,  14  f.),  especially  Ida's  de- 
scription of  the  festival.  Such  excerpts  shine  in  contrast  to 
their  surroundings,  but  place  them  beside  the  real  glories  of 
Byron's  poetry  and  they  are  dim  indeed.  The  versification  at 
best  is  dull,  at  worst  is  execrable.  With  the  lack  of  poetry 
there  is  a  corresponding  and,  I  think,  related  want  of  thought. 
The  play  is  superficial  and  dependent  on  incident,  like  all  those 
pieces  of  theatrical  acceptability  only  among  which  it  belongs. 
The  typical  Byronic  "notes"  are  almost  entirely  absent;*  such 
as  occur  echo  the  Byronic  tone  only  in  a  flal^by  and  diluted  form. 

Undeniably  there  were  tragic  possibilities  in  the  theme, 
—  the  sins  of  the  weak  father  reappearing  in  the  murderous 
son.  This  appears  as  a  key-note  at  the  beginning  of  the  play. 
Werner  says: 


printed  in  his  Miscellanies,  1885,  I,  189  f . ;  the   second  is  by  Robert  Syme, 
under  the  pseudonym  of  "Tickler." 

*  In  the  Thought-Index   referred  to  in  my  preface   there  are  scarcely 
a  dozen  references  to  the  play. 


Werner  and  The  Deformed  Transformed.  145 

"Heaven  seems 
To  claim  her  stern  prerogative,  and  visit 
Upon  my  boy  his  father's  faults  and  follies".  (I,  i,  96f.) 

This  is  worked  out  in  the  event.  Stohsel  says  (p.  10),  "Ver- 
derblicher  Leidenschaften  wegen  von  seinem  Vater  verstossen, 
ist  Kruitzer  in  Not  geraten  und  findet  zuletzt,  nachdem  er 
fiir  seine  Feliler  durch  Elend  gebiisst  hat,  ein  tragisches  Ge- 
schick,  indem  er  bei  der  Verteidigung  seines  Erbes  durch  die 
Wucht  der  Verhaltnisse  nicht  nur  selbst  zu  einem  Verbrechen 
gedrangt  wird,  das  ihn  die  Ruhe  seines  Gewissens  kostet,  ohne 
ihn  zu  retten,  sondern  auch  durch  die  Verteidigung  seiner 
Tat,  ohne  es  zu  wollen,  seinen  Sohn  veranlasst,  den  gemein- 
samen  Feind  zu  ermorden."  Such  a  conception  is  excellent, 
but  the  execution,  in  interest,  poetry,  philosophy,  and  tech- 
nique, is  entirely  unworthy  of  it. 

I  will  only  add  that  I  heartily  wish  that  Mr.  Leveson 
Gower*  had  proved  that  the  Duchess  of  Devonshire,  and  not 
Byron,  wrote  Werner.  Unfortunately  Mr.  Coleridge's  reply  to 
this  contention  (P.  V,  329  f.)  is  convincing. 

The  Deformed  Transformed. 

There  is  no  reference  to  The  Deformed  Transformed  in 
any  of  Bj^ron's  letters.  Is  not  this  a  sign  of  his  slight  esti- 
mation of  it?  The  MS.  is  dated  "Pisa,  1822,"  and  as  Medwm 
(p.  151)  records  Shelley's  unfavorable  judgment  of  it  —  "it  is 
a  bad  imitation  of  Faust,'"  July  8,  the  day  of  Shelley's  death, 
must  be  the  downward  limit  before  which  the  play,  unless 
Medwin's  anecdote  relates  to  the  first  scene  only,  must  have 
been  completed.  Since  Medwin  was  present  when  Byron 
showed  the  MS.  to  Shelley  and  since  Medwin  left  Pisa  on 
March  9,  Eimer  shrewdl}^  argues  that  that  date  must  be  taken 
as  the  downward  limit  of  composition,  at  least  of  the  first 
scene.  Byron  affected  to  be  so  concerned  with  Shelley's  strict- 
ures that  he  threw  the  poem  into  the  fire  and  for  two  years 
concealed  the  existence  of  another  copy.  The  piece  was  at 
length  pubhshed  by  John  Hunt,  February  20,  1824. 

In  an  "Advertisement"  (P.  V,  473)  Byron   noted  that  the 


^  "Did  Byron  write  Werner?,'''  Nineteenth  Century  LXVI,  243 f. 
Hesperia,  B.  3.  10 


146  Chapter  Eight. 

poem  was  "founded  partly  on  the  story  of  a  novel  called  The 
Three  Brothers,  published  many  years  ago,  from  which  M.  G. 
Lewis's  Wood  Demon  was  also  taken ;  and  partly  on  the  Faust 
of  the  great  Goethe," 

From  Joshua  Pickersgill's  novel,  The  Three  Brothers,^  1803, 
Byron  borrowed  the  scene  and  motive  of  the  transformation, 
and  the  name  Arnaud  or  Arnold.  Varnhagen  (p.  12)  notes  that 
in  the  novel  the  father  of  Arnaud  is  engaged  in  the  war 
between  the  Emperor  Charles  V  and  Francis  I,  and  that  the 
scene  is  in  Italy.  This  would  seem  to  have  suggested  to  Byron 
the  idea  of  associating  his  transformed  hunchback  with  the 
Sack  of  Rome,  The  episode  of  the  capture  of  Olympia  is 
apparently  his  own,  not  very  happy,  invention;  the  name 
Olympia  he  may  have  taken  fi'om  Shelley's  St.  Irvyyie.^ 

"Ohne  Goethes  Faust,''  says  Eimer,  "ware  dies  fi'agment 
gar  nicht  denkbar."  The  indebtedness  to  Faust  connects  the 
piece  with  Manfred  and  Cain.  The  combination  Arnold-Caesai* 
is  a  second  and  less  successful  study  of  the  Faust -Mephisto 
or  Gain -Lucifer  theme.  At  the  beginning  of  the  pla}^  there 
are  two  interesting  divergences  fi'om  the  novel  that  aid  in 
establishing  the  relationship  to  Faust.  Li  The  Three  Brothers 
the  devil  comes  in  obedience  to  an  incantation;  in  Faust  the 
black  poodle  comes  uncalled  for,  as  does  the  Stranger  in  Byron's 
piece;  and  in  both  Faust  and  The  Deformed  Transformed  a  mist 
resolves  itself  into  the  devil.  In  the  novel  there  is  no  express 
agreement  between  Arnaud  and  the  devil.  In  The  Deformed 
Transformed  the  Stranger  deliberately  rejects  Ai^nold's  offer  to 
sign  a  pact,  thus  significantly  altering  the  episode  in  Faust. 
The  Stranger's  attitude  towards  Arnold  is  a  mingling  of  reve- 
rence and  mockery.  There  are  two  other  incidents  reminiscent 
of  Faust.  Just  as  Mephisto  summons  the  aid  of  an  ignis-fatuus 
on  his  way  with  Faust  up  the  Brocken,  so  the  Stranger  causes 
a  "little,   marshy   spark  of  flame"   (I,  i,  479)  to  reanimate  the 


^  The  Three  Brothers,  a  Romance.  London,  Printed  for  John  Stock- 
dale,  1803.  E.  H.  Coleridge  (P.  V,  473  f.)  gives  extracts  from  it.  H.  Varn- 
hagen {Tiber  Byrons  dramatisches  Bruchstilck  "Der  umgestaltcte  Miss- 
gestaltete"  Erlangen,  1905,  p.  7  f.)  outlines  the  part  used  by  Byron. 

2  See  Gillardon,  p.  114. 


Werner  and  The  Deformed  Transformed.  147 

soulless  body  of  the  hunchback.'  The  four  coal-black  horses 
brought  by  the  page  a  moment  later  (1.  511)  are  a  reminder 
of  the  penultimate  scene  of  Faust,  where  the  stage  direction 
reads  "Faust,  Mephistopheles,  auf  schwarzen  Pferden  daher 
brausend."^  Varnhagen  further  believes  that  certain  of  the 
rime-schemes  of  Faust  were  imitated  by  Byron  in  the  in- 
cantation; this  is  very  doubtful. 

Except  the  first  scene,  there  is  an  historical  basis  for  the 
play.  Byron  had  read  Robertson's  Life  of  the  Emperor  Charles  F/ 
and  a  note  to  The  Prophecy  of  Dante  IV,  258,  shows  that  he 
knew  the  contemporary  accounts  of  the  Sack  of  Rome,  by 
Guicciardini  and  Buonaparte.  He  may  have  read  also  some  of 
the  lamentations  in  prose  or  verse  inspired  by  the  terrible 
event.* 

The  chief  of  many  objections  to  The  Deformed  Transformed 
is  that  it  lacks  a  definite  plan,  and  such  as  it  has  is  not  held 
to  consistently.  The  opening  is  inspired  by  bitter  recollections 
of  B3Ton's  own  childhood.  In  the  novel  Arnaud  is  hunchback 
only;  Byron  adds  the  lameness  —  a  personal  touch.  The 
leading  motiv  is  Arnold's  desire  for  love  and  power  and  his 
love  of  beauty.  These  attributes  he  finds  best  summed  up  in 
the  person  of  AchiUes,  V/ith  the  second  scene  of  the  play 
the  mood  is  changed.  Arnold  no  longer  wishes]  he  has  acquired 
all  his  desires  save  love.  From  this  it  would  seem  that  the 
Ol3'mpia  incident,  which  fills  the  obvious  gap,  would  have  been 
made  much  of  had  the  fragment  been  completed.  Arnold  has 
changed  more  than  form;  he  is  now  bold,  resourceful,  respected, 
relied  upon ;  but  though  bound  by  no  contract  he  is  none  the 
less  in  the  power  of  the  devil.  Nor  is  Caesar  quite  like  the 
original  Stranger:  he  is  wittier,  bitterer,  more  cunning.  He  is, 
however,   a  much  less   complicated  and  subtle  character  than 

^  As  Byron  refers  to  the  ignis-fatuus  eleven  times  iu  his  works  it  is 
incorrect  to  assume  that  here  and  in  Manfred  I,  i,  195  there  is  necessarily 
an  echo  of  Faust. 

'^  The  "Raven-stone"  of  Manfred  III,  i  (first  version)  and  of  Werner 
II,  ii,  178,  is  a  further  echo  of  this  scene. 

^  See  the  remarkable  list  of  books  read  by  Byron,  compiled  by  him' 
1807,  in  Moores's  Life,  I,  80. 

*  With  the  attack  on  Rome  cf.  The  Siege  of  Corinth,  1.  722  f.  and  the 
attack  on  Ismail  in  Don  Juan  (Cantos  vii  and  viii). 

10* 


^148  Chapter  Eight. 

Mephistopheles.  He  has  the  cynicism  and  mockery  of  Goethe's 
spirit,  but  without  his  sense  of  power  and  without  most  of  his 
wit.  Both  spirits  exist  in  evil  and  for  evil,  but  whereas 
Mephistopheles  leads  Faust  to  seduction  and  murder,  Caesar, 
in  that  portion  of  the  play  that  Byron  completed,  makes  no 
attempt  to  use  his  devilish  arts  to  corrupt  Arnold.  The  latter 
speaks  of  the  "scenes  of  blood  and  lust"  (I,  ii,  20)  through 
which  he  has  been  lured  on,  but  they  do  not  appear  in  the 
event.  Caesar  gives  Arnold  opportunity  for  advancement,  but 
by  noble  means  —  courage,  sagacity,  and  love.  All  that  Caesar 
incites  him  to  do  it  would  occur  to  any  high-minded  man  to 
undertake.  There  is  hardly  a  vestige  of  any  struggle  between 
good  and  evil. 

This  shows  that  Byron  had  formed  no  very  definite  scheme 
of  characterization  and  motivation.  The  two  leading  thoughts 
of  the  first  scene  do  not  appear  again.  These  are,  first,  the 
willingness  of  Caesar  to  abide  by  the  test  of  Arnold's  deeds; 
second,  the  impressive  idea  of  making  Caesar  assume  the 
cast-off  hunchback  form  — 

"In  a  few  moments 
I  wiU  be  as  you  were,  and  you  shall  see 
Yourself  forever  by  you  as  your  shadow"  (I,  i,  447- f.) 

Byron's  intention  would  seem  to  have  been  to  arrange  a  con- 
crete dramatic  presentation  of  the  haunting,  ever-present, 
watchful  eye  of  conscience.  But  in  the  sequel  he  makes 
nothing  of  the  idea. 

It  is  aU  both  puzzling  and  disappointing.  Byi'on  began 
fairly  well,  but  his  mood  changed  and  from  the  second  scene 
to  the  end  inspiration  is  conspicuously  absent.  The  action 
breaks  off,  so  far  as  there  is  an}^  development  of  character, 
and  except  for  the  introduction  of  Olympia,  the  psychological 
situation  at  the  close  of  the  fragment  is  just  the  same  as  at 
the  end  of  the  first  scene.  The  fighting  scenes  are  exceptionally 
crude,  and  quite  unworthy  of  Byron. 


The  Substance  of  the  Plays.  149 

Chapter  Nine. 
The  Substance  of  the  Plays. 

Byron  reaches  the  heart  of  the  tragic  idea,  the  rebellion 
of  the  individual  against  the  universal  norm  of  things.  All  his 
protagonists  exhibit  this  overweening  assertion  of  the  will.  The 
jealous}'  of  Faliero,  the  slothfulness  of  Sardanapalus,  the  "sickly 
affection"  of  Jacopo  Foscari,  the  dishonesty  and  sensuality  of 
Siegendorf,  the  misanthropy  and  pride  of  Manfred,  the  soaring 
ambition  of  Gain,  the  rebellion  of  Anah  and  Aholibamah  — 
all  are  assaults  upon  eternal  law.  The  will  over-asserts  itself 
in  one  direction,  and  makes  those  determinations  and  desires 
that  in  moderation  are  right  and  needful  become,  since  pushed 
too  far,  pernicious  and  perverse.  Where  there  is  exaggeration 
in  one  direction,  in  another  there  must  appear  the  consequences 
thereof,  that  the  balance  of  life  be  preserved.  Over-insistence 
upon  one  motive,  one  ideal,  brings  with  it  retribution  in  the 
shape  of  the  intrinsic  consequences  of  that  over-emphasis;  for 
Justice  is  even-handed.  The  protagonist  sees  one  cause  stead- 
ily, but  at  the  cost  of  sight  of  the  whole.  He  assumes  this 
defiant  attitude  for  the  attainment  of  some  great  end  for  which 
he  sacrifices  all  else.  It  may,  or  ma}'  not,  be  ethically  justified, 
but  it  enthrals  him  and  bHnds  him  to  the  proportional  value 
of  things.  In  its  noblest  form  this  tragic  singleness  of  pur- 
pose is  an  unquestioning  devotion  to  an  ethical  principle.  This 
is  the  case  with  Brutus  and  Horace.  In  Racine  and  generally 
in  Shakespeare  the  choice  of  one  impelling  motive  is  due  to 
the  force  of  passion  —  love,  ambition,  jealousy,  egotism,  are 
the  modes  of  operation  of  the  will.  In  Byron  an  ethical 
purpose  is  often  mixed  with  the  promptings  of  passion.  Thus 
Sardanapalus  fights  for  something  more  than  self;  Faliero  has 
motives  of  patriotism  mingled  with  those  of  jealousy  and 
revenge ;  Cain's  discontent  is  with  the  inadequacy  to  the  mind's 
conceptions,  not  of  his  own  state  only,  but  of  the  state  of  all 
men  to  come  after  him.  In  his  rebellious  nature,  though  stained 
with  crime,  there  is  something  of  a  high  disinterestedness. 

"Stained  with  crime,"  1  say;  for  all  Byron's  heroes  are 
guilty    in   greater    or    less    degree.      The    protagonist    is    the 


150  Chapter  Nine. 

representative  of  humanit}'^,  and  as  human,  imperfect.  Saint 
Michael,  who  stands  calm  though  he  feels  the  serpent  writhing 
beneath  his  feet,  is  aloof  from  human  sympathy.  Man,  toiling 
upward  towards  the  light,  or  thrust  downward  into  darkness, 
weak,  struggling,  sinful,  aspiring,  is  the  theme  of  tragedy. 
Absolute  wickedness,  the  wickedness  of  a  Goneril  or  an  lago, 
is  not  tragic.  Such  monsters  are  merely  part  of  the  machinery 
of  tragedy.  Evil  is  an  essential  attribute  in  them,  while  in 
the  tragic  hero  it  has  come  about  through  misuse  of  potent- 
iahties  for  good.  He  is  not  merely  an  instrument  in  the 
eternal  war  of  good  and  evil;  he  includes  within  himself  part 
of  that  war.  On  the  other  hand,  perfect  innocence  is  not 
tragic,  but  pathetic,  if  it  go  down  to  unmerited  doom ;  for  such 
doom  makes  for  a  questioning  of  universal  law,  a  denial  of 
eternal  justice,  that  are  hardly  proper  to  tragedy.  Yet  when 
we  look  upon  the  tragic  loading  of  Othello's  bed  or  listen  to 
Lear's  words  — 

"Why  should  a  dog,  a  horse,  a  rat,  have  life. 

And  thou  no  breath  at  all?" 

optimism  is  hushed  and  the  workings  of  eterngd  law  seem  blind 
and  purposeless.  For  Shakespeare  often  substitutes  a  "tragic 
flaw"  in  lieu  of  actual  criminality  in  the  hero's  character, 
setting  this  flaw  in  the  midst  of  vii'tues  that  put  then-  possessor 
far  above  those  around  him.  In  Byron's  plays  the  crime-element 
is  always  apparent,  though  upon  it  not  such  emphasis  is  laid 
as  to  preclude  our  sympathy.  Thus  he  writes  to  Hodgson 
(LJ.  V,  284),  "I  must  remark  from  Aristotle  and  Rymer,  that 
the  hero  of  tragedy  and  (I  add  meo  ])ericiilo)  a  tragic  poem 
must  he  guilty  to  excite  'pity  and  terror,'  the  end  of  tragic 
poetry."  His  theory  may  be  illustrated  by  his  practice.  The 
indolence,  selfishness,  and  sensuality  of  Sardanapalus  is  not 
glossed  over;  but  he  retains  our  sympathy  by  the  courage 
with  which  he  defends  what  voluntarily  he  might  gladly  have 
relinquished,  by  his  humanitarianism,  his  wit,  the  prosperity 
of  the  empire  under  his  reign,  and  by  the  unworthy  motives 
of  his  opponents,  who  with  the  struggle  for  freedom  mingle 
desire  for  personal  aggrandizement.  Similarly,  the  Doge  who 
plots  against  the  state  is  criminal.  However  worthy  the  cause 
when  undertaken  by  others,  when  Marino  Faliero   goes  about 


The  Substance  of  the  Plays.  151 

to  free  Venice  from  the  aristocracy  of  which  he  is  the  titular 
head,  he  commits  a  legal  crime;  like  Orestes  he  is  caught 
between  positive  law  and  moral  obligation.  In  The  Tioo  Foscari 
there  is  rather  the  tragic  flaw  (that  "sickly  affection  for  his 
native  city"  of  which  Byron  spoke  to  Medwin;  krankhaft 
Westenholz  calls  it)  than  actual  guilt,  though  the  latter  is  not 
lacking.  Of  Werner  E.  H.  Coleridge  writes  (P.  V,  328),  "the 
motif  —  a  son  predestined  to  evil  by  the  weakness  and  sen- 
suality of  his  father,  a  father  punished  for  his  want  of  recti- 
tude by  the  passionate  criminality  of  his  son,  is  the  very 
ke5'note  of  tragedy."  So  also  in  the  "metaphysical"  plays 
there  is  alwaj^s  guilt.  But  there  is  a  remainder  of  good,  or  a 
remembrance  of  past  good,  in  the  soul  of  the  protagonist. 

The  protagonist  is  conscious  of  individual  freedom.  Tra- 
gedy presupposes  not  necessarily  free  will,  but  resistance  to 
arbitrar}'  power  prompted  by  belief  in  spiritual  liberty.  If  this 
confidence  be  iU-founded,  then  is  the  tragic  irony  but  the 
greater.  Necessitarianism  is  compatible  with  tragedy  only 
when  it  does  not  crush  human  resistance.  Through  voluntary 
action,  or  action  that  the  hero  supposes  voluntary,  he  is  placed 
in  opposition  to  the  Whole.  There  is  the  liberty  to  choose, 
there  is  the  choice,  and  there  is  the  train  of  consequence.  "In- 
centives come  from  the  soul's  self;"  the  stuff  of  tragedy  comes 
fi'om  events  that  bear  the  mark  of  causality.  Nature  takes  no 
account  of  the  motive,  and  proceeds  in  a  non-moral  unconcern 
to  those  consequences  which  Macbeth  knew  neither  assassina- 
tion nor  any  other  action  could  trammel  up. 

Yet  ethically  the  motive  is  everything.  Of  the  tragic  hero 
there  is  required  the  choice  of  the  higher  loyalty.  When  he 
has  embraced  his  cause  scruples  arise  in  him;  for  the  oppo- 
sition voices  the  principles  that  must  govern  mankind  and  it 
finds  (paradoxical  though  it  appear)  its  most  ardent  supporter 
in  the  soul  of  the  protagonist.  Faliero  is  torn  between  official 
duty  and  private  patriotism ;  on  the  one  side  is  the  caste-spirit, 
on  the  other  love  of  country.  This  is  the  doctrine  of  "oppos- 
ing goods"  of  which  Lessing,  following  Aristotle  (Poetics  XIV), 
makes  so  much.  Sardanapalus,  desiring  peace,  is  compelled 
to  fight  against  his  countrymen ;  Faliero  plots  against  the  state 
of  which  he  is  chief;   Foscari  dies  at  the  hands  of  his  adored 


152  Chapter  Nine. 

Venice.  Byron's  heroes  embrace  the  nobler  and  manlier  cause, 
but  the  acceptance  is  not  without  struggle  and  sacrifice,  for 
on  the  opposing  side  are  dear  and  honorable  ties  of  love  and 
memory. 

Hence  the  importance  of  the  motive  of  the  choice.  Con- 
temporaries^ of  Byron  saw  that  the  classical  model  lent  itself 
to  Byron's  purposes,  that  his  emphasis  was  upon  motive.  Of 
Marino  Faliero  Mr.  Gourthope  says  (VI,  261),  "Plot  and  action, 
with  an  attendant  development  of  character  .  .  .  are  conspicuous 
by  their  absence  .  .  .  Everything  depends  upon  n^otive  and  in- 
tention .  .  .  The  strength  of  the  drama,  therefore,  lies  neces- 
sarily in  the  speeches^  expressive  of  motive."  B3Ton  here,  as 
Mr.  Gourthope  goes  on  to  say,  resembles  Racine.  The  rival 
loyalties  are  weighed  and  contrasted.  The  action  is  not  ex- 
ternal, but  psychological;  the  crisis  is  in  the  soul  of  the  pro- 
tagonist. Byron  here  points  the  way  that  many  modern 
dramatists  have  followed.  In  Browning's^  plays  the  stress  is 
all  upon  the  spiritual  struggle.  The  poet  is  apparently  un- 
conscious of  the  outer  world ;  external  circumstance  is  nothing 
to  him;  he  is  concerned  solely  with  the  world  of  thought  and 
passion  and  will,  and  this  to  an  exaggerated  extent  w^hich 
sacrifices  dramatic  objectivity.  Browning,  as  to  some  degree 
Byron  before  him,   is  led  astray.     The   combination  of  motive 


^  See  e.g.  Edinburgh  Review  XXXVI,  422  f.  or  Jeffrey's  Literary 
Criticism.,  ed.  E.  Nichol  Smith,  London,  Frowde,  1910,  p.  167. 

^  This  absorption  in  motive  leads  to  lengthy  speeches;  and  brevity  is 
a  requisite  for  stage  success.  In  Manfred  the  lyric  nature  of  the  mono- 
logues palliates  the  offense.  In  it  the  longest  speeches  are  of  49,  56.  40,  33, 
and  45  lines,  respectively.  In  Marino  Faliero  there  are  speeches  of  28,  28, 
47,  80,  27,  90,  68,  58,  and  78  lines.  Moreover  the  responses  in  dialogue  are 
inordinately  long.  For  example,  Othello  with  3165  lines  (Eversley  ed.)  has 
1183  separate  speeches,  the  average  speech  being  thus  about  2.  67  lines  long. 
In  Marino  Faliero  3483  lines  are  divided  among  738  speeches,  an  average 
of  nearly  4.  72.  This  wordiness  is  made  the  more  marked  by  several  very 
long  dialogues,  e.  g.  Act  II,  Sc.  i;  Act  V,  Sc.  i.  In  Sardanapalus  the 
average  is  2.  71  —  a  welcome  decrease  of  verbosity  with  a  corresponding 
increase  in  the  amount  of  action. 

*  See  further,  Henry  Jones,  "Browning  as  Dramatist,"  Boston  Broicn- 
ing  Society  Papers,  New  York,  Macmillan,  p.  210;  C.  L.  Sparrow,  ''Brown- 
ing's Dramas,"  Modern  Lang.  Notes  XXII,  65  f. 


The  Substance  of  the  Plays.  153 

and  character  should  lead  to  action;  instead  the  poets  loiter 
in  the  fascinating  maze  of  conflicting  purposes,  intent  upon 

"Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 

Into  a  narrow  act," 

not  realizing  that  such  thoughts  cannot  be  cast  into  a  truly 
dramatic  form. 

A  barrier  opposes  the  desires  of  the  individual  soul.   Some 
poets  emphasize 

"the  dread  strife 
Of  poor  humanity's  afflicted  will 
Struggling  in  vain  with  ruthless  destiny." 

This,  the  easiest  solution  of  the  problem,  reheves  humanity  of 
responsibility  b}-  proclaiming  the  omnipotence  of  blind  necessity. 
I  have  already  called  attention  to  Byron's  shifting  views  on 
the  problem  of  free  will.  Sardanapalus  is  the  only  one  of  his 
plays  that  can  be  called  deterministic;  but  there  and  elsewhere 
is  found  the  nobler  belief  that  the  individual  must  strive  with 
his  social  and  political  envkonment.  This  position  accords 
with  Byron's  concern  for  humanity  in  the  mass,  the  relation 
of  man  to  his  surroundings,  the  problems  of  states.  And  Byron 
at  times  goes  deeper  yet,  and  accepts  the  position  so  typical 
of  Shakespeare,  that  the  opposing  force  is  character,  that  the^ 
conflict  is  internal.  The  rottenness  is  not  in  the  state  of  Den- 
mark so  much  as  in  Hamlet's  will;  the  witches  are  not  ob- 
jective ministers  of  destiny  so  much  as  the  promptings  of 
Macbeth's  own  soul.  They  appeared  to  him  because,  as  Mr. 
Bradley  says  (p.  344),  the  thoughts  to  which  they  gave  ex- 
pression were  not  new  to  him.  To  this  there  is  a  striking 
parallel  in  Cain.  Adah  who,  hke  Gretchen  —  "Was  steigt  aus 
dem  Boden  herauf?"  —  is  instinctively  conscious  of  the  pre- 
sence of  an  evil  spirit,  warns  Gain  of  those 

"demons  who  assume 
The  words  of  God,  and  tempt  us  with  our  own 
Dissatisfied  and  cui'ious  thoughts"  (I,  i,  401  f.) 

Her  words  are  justified  by  the  event,  when,  later  (H,  ii,  352  f.), 
Lucifer  reminds  Gain  that  the  sacrifices  of  Abel  are  acceptable. 
"So  be  the}^!"  is  Gain's  answer;  "wherefore  speak  to  me  of 
this?"  to  which  the  tempter  replies  ^^Because  thou  hast  thought 
of  this  ere  now.''    The  passage  should  certainly  be  collated  with 


154  Chapter  Nine. 

the  parallel  motive  in  Macbeth,  upon  which  it  forms  the  essen- 
tial commentary. 

Since  the   element   of  crime   enters  into  the  character  of 
the  tragic  hero,   the   element   of  justice  is  never  absent  from 
the  opposing  force.    Tragedy  becomes  thus  an  intestinal  war- 
fare of  good  with  good.    This  is  exactly  the  Byronic  position  — 
not  a  clearly  defined  representation  of  the  conflict  of  Ormuzd 
with  Ahriman,  but  a  commingling  of  the  elements  of  good  and 
evil   in    both    parties    of   the   strife.     Justice   is   mingled   with 
ambition   and   selfishness   in  Arbaces,   with   tyranny   and  self- 
wlU  in  the  "Ten,"  with  revenge  in  Loredano;  but  in  no  case 
is   it   absent.      This   fact   leads   us   into    the   inmost    heart    of 
ly   Byronism.     His  whole  poetry  is  shot  through  with  a  dualistic 
conception  of  the  universe.     The  spirit,   not  of  Spenser  only, 
"down  is  weighd  with  thought  of  earthly  things, 
And  clogd  with  burden  of  mortality."^ 

The  sense  of  these  lines,  their  very  words,  recur  again  and 
again  in  Byron.  Into  the  characters  of  his  poetry  he  is  con- 
stantly inserting  elements  of  his  own  spiritual  experience,  as 
when  he  says  (LJ.  Ill,  137),  "My  good  and  evil  are  at  per- 
petual war."  Almost  he  conceives  this  war  as  between  his 
good  and  his  evil  genius,  thus  considering  them  as  animistic 
entities.  "Man  is  born  passionate  of  body,"  he  writes  (LJ.  V, 
457),  "but  with  an  innate  though  secret  tendenc}-  to  the  love 
of  Good  in  his  Mainspring  of  Mind.  But  God  help  us  all!  It 
is  at  present  a  sad  jar  of  atoms."  Upon  this  element  of  BjTon's 
character  Ruskin  has  an  important  comment:''  "His  deep  sym- 
pathy with  justice,  kindness  and  courage;  his  intense  reach  of 
pity,  never  failing,  however  far  he  had  to  stoop  to  la}^  his 
hand  on  a  human  heart,  have  all  been  lost  sight  of,  either  in 
too  fond  admiration  of  his  slighter  gifts,  or  in  narrow  judgment 
of  the  errors  which  burst  into  the  more  flagrant  manifestation, 
just  because  they  were  inco7isistent  with  half  his  soul,  and  could 
never  become  incarnate,  accepted,  silent  sin."  In  aU  Byron's 
characters  there  is  this  inconsistency  of  soul;  "high  thought" 
is    "linked   to    a   servile   mass   of   matter" "    which    "clogs    the 

^  Amoretti  Ixxii. 

2  Works,  XIII,  143  f. 

»  Cain  II,  i,  50. 


The  Substance  of  the  Plays.  155 

ethereal  essence."  *  Byron  never  followed  Marcus  Aurelius 
(XI,  20)  in  the  belief  that  the  soul  —  the  fiery  and  aerial 
parts  —  is  utterly  overcome  by  the  body;  hence  there  are  in 
his  dramas  no  such  figures  as  lago  or  Count  Genci,  no 
"outrageous  ranting  villains,"  as  he  expresses  it  (LJ.  V,  243). 
His  faith  in  human  nature  is  an  effectual  answer  to  the  charge 
of  pessimism.  He  ])ortrays  the  eternal  conflict  of  good  and 
evil;  he  is  himself  torn  and  shattered  by  it;  he  knows  that 

"in  tragic  life,  God  wot. 
No  villain  need  be.     Passions  spin  the  plot. 
We  are  betrayed  by  what  is  false  within;"* 

but  his  resolve  eternally  to  question  the  mystery  of  evil  is 
unalterable,  and  his  confidence  in  the  outcome  is  secure. 

This  confidence  Byron  maintains  even  in  the  face  of  the 
conclusion  of  tragedy.  The  close  of  his  dramas  accords  with 
the  belief  in  a  divine  and  moral  fate;  his  tragic  theory  is 
HegeHan.  We  look  "with  calm  of  mind,  all  passion  spent" 
upon  the  logical  outcome  of  wrongdoing,  yet  with  a  sense  that 
the  material  victory  is  ephemeral.  In  Sardanapalus  this  victory 
is  dwarfed  by  the  moral  elevation  of  the  character  of  the  j 
defeated  monarch.  "Purged  from  the  dross  of  earth  and  eartlily 
passion,"  Myrrha  and  her  lover  remain  the  true  victors  in  the 
fight.  Yet  they  do  not  reach  the  spiritual  heights  of  Faliero, 
for  expiation,  being  of  value  not  to  others  but  only  to  the 
individual,  can  never  rise  to  the  dignity  of  sacrifice.  The  Doge 
is  decapitated,  but  the  shameful  inscription  that  takes  the  place 
of  his  portrait  among  the  doges 

"Shall  draw  more  gazers  than  the  thousand  portraits 
Which  glitter  round  it  in  their  pictured  trappings" 

(V,  i,  504f.) 

For  "c'est  la  cause  fait  la  honte  et  non  pas  I'echafaud;"  "the 
aim,  if  reached  or  not,  makes  great  the  life."  This  is  that 
paradox 

"Which  comforts  while  it  mocks  — 
Life  shall  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail."* 

Two  considerations   add  their  weight  to    the  spiritual  triumph 

>  Manfred  U,  iv,  56. 

^  George  Meredith,  Modern  Love  xlii. 

*  Browning,  liabbi  Ben  Ezra  vii. 


156  Chapter  Nine. 

at  the  close  of  tragedy.  One  is  the  value  of  suffering.  "There 
is  nothing  the  body  suffers  that  the  soul  may  not  profit  by."* 
Upon  this  Byron  lays  stress: 

"Not  in  vain, 
Even  for  its  own  sake  do  we  purchase  pain."' 

The  other  consideration  is  the  essential  dignity  of  death.    "Death 

alone  can    give  Beauty    its  crown  of  iramortahty   and  exalt  it 

I  above  chance  and  change."'     The  king  who    dies  rather  than 

I  renounce   his  fi-eedom  is  by  death    "set  free   forever  from  all 

faults  and  foes."* 

Since  the  time  of  Aristotle  it  has  been  a  commonplace  to 
say  that  tragedy  is  concerned  with  the  fate  of  great  men. 
Art  requires  isolation;  the  tragic  circumstance  is  separated 
from  the  generality  of  Ufe.  In  kings  and  heroes  "by  their 
accidental  position,  the  complete  isolation  required  by  art  is 
aheady  half  accomplished."^  But  though  the  kingly  tradition 
has  held  long,  surviving  not  only  in  Byron,   but  in  Tenn3'son 

^  Meredith,  Diana  of  the  Crossivays,  chapter  43. 

*  Epistle  to  Augusta,  stanza  v,  P.  IV,  59. 

^  William  Archer,  "Pessimism  and  Tragedy,"  Fortnightly  Review, 
n.  s.  LXV,  392. 

*  I  have  no  wish  to  "parade  authorities"  (so  objectionable  a  feature  of 
monograph  writing),  but  I  believe  a  list  of  the  more  important  books  used 
in  preparation  of  the  foregoing  discussitin  of  Byron's  idea  of  tragedy  may  be 
of  service  to  some  students  of  the  subject.  Aristotle,  Poetics  (ed.  Butcher); 
P.  Berger,  Quelques  Aspects  de  la  Foi  inoderne  dans  les  poemes  de  Rober;t 
Browning,  Paris,  1907;  A.  C.  Bradley,  Shakespearean  Tragedy  and  Oxford 
Lectures  on  Poetry,  both  Macmillan;  J.  R.  Colby,  Some  Ethical  Aspects 
of  Elizabethan  Tragedy,  Ann  Arbor,  1886;  Courthope,  Hist.  Eng.  Poetry 
W.  Creizenach,  Geschichte  des  neueren  Dramas,  Halle;  Dryden,  various 
essays ;  0.  Elton,  Modern  Studies.  London,  Arnold,  1907 ;  Hazlitt,  Lectures 
on  the  English  Poets;  Henry  Jones,  "Browning  as  Dramatist,"  Boston 
Browning  Society  Papers;  Lamb,  Characters  of  Dramatic  Writers  con- 
temporary with  Shakespeare,  Collected  Works  H,  253,  and  The  Tragedies 
of  Shakespeare,  ibid.  II,  2?2;  Joseph  Mazzini,  On  Fatality  considered  as 
an  Element  of  the  Dramatic  Art,  Life  and  Writings,  1865,  vol.  11; 
R.  G.  Moulton,  The  Moral  System  of  Shakespeare,  New  York,  Macmillan, 
1903;  Schiller,  Tragic  Art,  Essays  Aesthetical  and  Philosophical.  London, 
Bell,  1875;  D.  J.  Snider,  System  of  Shakespeare's  Dramas,  St.  Louis.  1877; 
Thorndike,  Tragedy;  E.  D.  West,  "One  Aspect  of  Browning's  Villains," 
Browning  Studies,  ed.  E.  Berdoe,  London,  Allen,  1899;  Woodbridge,  The 
Drama,  Its  Laio  and  Technique. 

» Lascelles  Abercrombie,  r/io;«as^a/-rft/,NewYork,Kenuerley,1912.p.i)9. 


The  Substance  of  the  Plays.  157 

■  ■  ^ 

and  Swinburne,  it  is  not  binding.    Tragic  action  arises  among     ■  '*' 

men  of  lowly  estate; 

"the  tragic  Muse 
Shall  find  apt  subjects  for  her  highest  art, 
Amid  the  groves,  under  the  shadowy  hills."' 

Byron's  protagonists  are  all  men  of  rank.  Closely  allied  to 
this  is  his  choice  of  an  historical  setting  in  five  of  his  plays. 
This  choice  is  made  not  in  order  to  lay  stress  upon  public 
issues  as  suck  (tragedy  is  concerned  with  the  individual),  but 
because  at  such  times  there  is  an  exhibition  of  stress  of  soul 
and  depths  of  character  that  are  lacking  or  suppressed  at 
ordinaiy  times. 

The  choice  of  subject  involves  the  selection  of  incidents. 
What  is  of  essential  and  permanent  import  is  the  material  of 
art,  and  the  true  artist  penetrates  the  tangle  of  incidents  and 
grasps  those  factors  of  a  situation  of  which  the  appegd  is  most 
nearly  universal.  Two  considerations  particularly  weigh  upon 
the  dramatist:  the  presentation  of  the  essentials  of  a  situation 
within  a  limited  time,  and  the  giving  of  emphasis  to  the 
monotonous  course  of  actuality.  By  rejection  of  the  non-essential 
and  increased  distinction  of  relation  the  raw  materials  of  Ufe 
are  moulded  into  the  finished  products  of  dramatic  art,  the 
"oozings  fi^om  the  mine"  become  the  ring.  The  difficulties 
of  this  selective  process  vary  in  degree.  Even  Shakespeare 
seems  at  times  —  as  in  Antony  and  Cleopatra  —  dazed  by  the 
complexity  of  his  material.  Byron's  limited  interpretation  of 
the  unity  of  action  makes  for  ease  in  selection.  The  earlier 
stages  of  the  action  are  not  presented;  only  the  culmination 
and  catastrophe.  This  elimination  enables  the  dramatist  to 
treat  more  fully  such  events  as  are  reserved  for  portrayal.  In 
Sarda7iapalus,  for  example,  the  audience  witnesses,  or  hears 
by  report,  every  event  of  any  moment  throughout  the  fatal 
night.  Contrast  this  historical  spirit  with  the  psychological 
spirit  of  Macbeth  in  which  we  see  in  snatches,  and  from  different 
points  of  view,  and  over  a  wide  stretch  of  time,  the  soul  of 
the  protagonist  as  it  goes  down  to  ruin.  In  those  plays  where 
Byron  discards  the  historical  attitude  the  problem  of  selection 
and  rejection   becomes    more   difficult.     In  Manfred   there  are 

*  Wordsworth,  The  Excursion  VI,  551  f. 


158  Chapter  Nine. 

but  the  few  telling  situations,  showing  the  hero  in  the  presence 
of  the  supernatural,  of  nature,  of  his  fellow-raan,  of  sin,  of  the 
Beloved,  of  orthodox  rehgion,  and  of  death.  In  Cain  all  circum- 
stances not  bearing  on  the  central  idea  are  similarly  ehminated. 

The  problem  of  selection  involves  the  question  of  episodes. 
The  sub-plots  of  the  Elizabethan  drama  do  not  appear  in  B3^ron's 
plays.  That  sort  of  episode  which  Dryden  called  a  "relation," 
introduced  to  make  clear  some  event  antecedent  to  the  play 
or  to  avoid  tumult  on  the  stage,  occurs  but  rarely.  The  ac- 
count of  the  battle  in  the  third  act  of  Sardanapalus  is  divers- 
ified by  a  certain  amount  of  action.  The  desire  to  preserve 
"decorum"  as  well  as  the  exigencies  of  the  situation  necessi- 
tates the  arrangement  of  the  last  scene  of  Marino  Faliero,  an 
arrangement  copied  by  Swinburne  in  his  Mary  Stuart.  In  a 
few  cases  Byron  introduces  episodes  to  aid  in  the  delineation 
of  character.  The  most  important  example  of  this  is  the 
meeting  between  Sardanapalus  and  his  neglected  wife.  This 
scene  emphasizes  weaknesses  in  the  king's  character  that  help 
i  to  reconcile  the  reader  to  the  catastrophe;  but  it  is  hard  to 
justify  the  incident;  as  a  fragment  of  autobiography  it  is 
interesting  But  irrelevEint. 

The  only  important  episodes  in  Byron's  plays  are  those 
introduced  to  afford  dramatic  relief.  He  uses  no  scenes  of 
^"lower  tension,"^  but  numerous  passages  of  "nature  poetry" 
get  the  same  effect.  Such  passages  are  essentially  undramatic, 
as  SheUey  knew  well  when,  in  the  preface  to  The  Cetici,  he 
wrote,  "I  have  avoided  with  great  care  in  writing  this  play 
the  introduction  of  what  is  commonly  called  mere  poetry,  and 
I  imagine  there  will  scarcely  be  found  a  detached  simile  or  a 
single  isolated  description."  Yet  nothing  is  more  characteristic 
of  Byron  than  just  such  descriptions,  nor  more  important,  for 
in  them  appears  his  mature  view  of  Nature. 

In  Byron's  juvenile  work  the  prevailing  note  is  social; 
the  interest  is  in  men,  and  particularly  women.  Of  the  Hours 
of  Idleness  and  other  early  poems,  some  eleven  are  addressed 
to  men,  five  or  six  are  inspned  by  school  and  college  life, 
there  are  many  translations  and  imitations,   many  poems  of  a 

^  See  Bradley,  Shakespearean  Tragedy,  p.  48—9,  and  cf.  the  exquisite 
interludes  of  Shelley's  Prometheus  Unbound  (II,  ii,  272  f.  and  III,  iii). 


The  Substance  of  the  Plays.  159 

general  amatory  cast,  and  no  less  than  thirty-five  addressed 
to  various  ladies.  There  is  some  slight  interest  in  associations 
with  places,  with  Newstead  Abbey  and  Harrow,  but  there  is 
hardly  any  "nature  poetry"  and  that  little  of  the  most  con- 
ventional kind.  He  celebrates  "the  steep  frowning  glories  of 
dark  Loch  na  Garr"  (P.  I,  173),  but  he  had  no  such  experiences 
in  the  presence  of  mountains  as  that  recorded  in  the  first 
book  of  The  Prelude,  lines  375—400.  To  this  superficial  view 
of  nature  The  Prayer  of  Nature  (1806;  P.  I,  224)  is  an  ex- 
ception, since  it  shows  the  influence  of  Spinoza,  but  it  has 
come  through  Pope  and  I  regard  the  poem  as  hardly  more 
than  an  imitation  of  The  Universal  Prayer.  It  is  significant, 
however,  as  having  in  germ  thoughts  which  first  found  full 
utterance  in  the  third  canto  of  Childe  Harold,  and  which  have 
been  generallj'  ascribed  to  the  influence  of  Wordsworth  and 
SheUey.* 

Byron  himself  records  that  he  "learnt  to  philosophise"  on 
his  travels  (LJ.  I,  254).     Such  a  statement  should  not  be  taken 
too  seriously.    In  Portugal  he  delighted  in  the  beauties  of  that 
"delicious   land,"    but   there    is  no    pantheism   in  his    view    ofy; 
nature.     The  prevaihng  interest  is  stiU  social,  and  everywhere     / 
he  concerns  himself  with  the  actions  and  thoughts  of  humanity,^ 
whether  it  be  to  comment  on  the  beauty  of  the  women,  or  to 
describe  the  national  sport,  or  to  arouse  patriotism  against  the 
foreign   foe.     It  is  the  same   when   he  comes   to  Greece.     He 
regards  her  as  a  "sad  rehc  of  departed  worth"  {Childe  Harold 
II,  73),    a  "land    of  lost  Gods    and   god -like  men"    (ihid.,  75). 
"Where'er  we  tread  'tis  haunted,  holy  ground"  (ibid.,  78).  Man- 
kind is  the  subject  of  the  poet's  thoughts  and  song.     A  good 
illustration  of  this  is  the  description  of  sunset  at  the  commence-       ; 
ment  of  the  third  canto  of  The  Corsair.^    In  Byron  the  sunset 
inspires   no  pantheistic  fervor,  but  it  recalls  the  death   of  So- 
crates; Byron's  thoughts  are  of  men.     Even  during  the  Swiss 


^  See  M.  Eimer,  "Byrons  pantheismus  vom  jahre  1816,"  Eng.  Stud., 
XLni,  406. 

'  This  passage  was  taken  from  the  commencement  of  the  suppressed 
Curse  of  Minerva  where  it  was  equally  inappropriate.  It  seems  to  me  to 
be  an  originally  separate  piece  of  nature-poetry,  made  to  do  service  as  an 
introductory  paragraph. 


\ 


160  Chapter  Nine. 

period,  when  BjTon  was  impregnated  with  Wordsworthian 
metaphysics  and  the  latent  pantheism  in  him  had  been  vital- 
ized by  companionship  with  Shelley,  this  earher  attitude,  with 
its  emphasis  upon  human  associations,  was  not  discarded.  The 
third  canto  of  Childe  Harold  is  ahve  with  memories  of  men. 
Note  also  the  sonnet  to  Lake  Leman  (P.  IV.  53),  which  has  in 
it  no  mysticism  and  of  which  the  mood  is  that  already  observed 
in  Spain  and  Greece.  The  poet  declares  that  the  memory  of 
Rousseau,  Voltaire,  Gibbon,  and  De  Stael  would  recall  to  re- 
membrance the  lovely  lake  and  that  their  memories  have  made 
it  lovelier.  This  is  certainly  not  loving  "Earth  only  for  its 
earthly  sake."  It  is  nearer  to  the  fundamentally  Byronic  point 
of  view,  admirably  summed  up  by  Lord  Morley:  "Nature,  in 
her  most  dazzling  aspects  or  stupendous  parts,  is  but  the  back- 
ground and  theatre  of  the  tragedy  of  man."^ 

The  "latent  pantheism"  to  which  I  have  referred  appears 
in  the  second  canto  of  Childe  Harold,  stanzas  xxv  and  xxvi; 
but  even  here  the  truer  characteristic  is  a  yeai^ning  towards 
man  rather  than  towards  nature.  The  desire  is  for  "one  to 
bless  us,  one  whom  we  can  bless,"  for  one  "with  kindred 
consciousness  endued,"  for  one  whose  happiness  and  smiles 
would  be  in  some  measure  dependent  upon  him.  Nevertheless 
there  is  undoubtedly  a  consciousness  of  real  fellowship  with 
Nature,  a  sensation  deeper  than  one  of  mere  enjoyment.  It 
is  Faust's  — 

"Nicht 
Kalt  staunenden  Besuch  erlaubst  du  nur, 
Vergonnest  mir  in  ihre  tiefe  Brust 
Wie  in  den  Busen  eines  Freunds  zu  schauen"  (1.  3221  f.) 

Pantheism  permeates  the  entire  third  canto.  Trelawney  (p.  8) 
recorded  that  Byron  had  told  E.  E.  WiUiams  that  "the  idea  of 
the  tragedy  of  Manfred,  and  many  of  the  philosophical,  or 
rather  metaphysical,  notions  interwoven  m  the  composition  of 
the  fourth  (sic,  almost  certainly  for  third)  canto  of  Childe 
Harold,  are  his  (i.  e.  Shelley's)  suggestion;  but  this,  of  course, 
is  between  ourselves."*    Eimer*  shows  that  such  passages  may 

'  Byron,  Miscellanies  I,  218. 

-  Byron  said  that  Trelawney  could  not  tell  the  truth. 

»  Eny.  Stud.  XLIII,  407. 


The  Substance  of  the  Plays.  161 

be  derived  directly  from  tlie  influence  of  the  Essay  on  Man. 
It  is  difficult  to  believe,  however,  that  the  primary  influence 
in  this  conception  of  the  Whole  which  transcends  the  antinomy 
of  mind  and  matter,  in  which  are  all  things,  was  not  the  poetry 
of  Wordsworth,  ])articularly  the  immortal  passage  in  the 
Tinfern  Abbey  hnes  in  which  the  poet  describes  the  sense 
sublime 

"Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air. 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man: 
A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 
AU  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  -all  thought. 
And  roils  through  all  things"  (1.  96  f.) 
This  all-pervading   spirit   is  Love,^   a  Shelleyan    interpretation 
of  the  doctrine  of  Spinoza.    Byron  cannot  attain  to  the  mystical 
rapture  of  such  lines  as  these  — 

"I  know 
That  Love  makes  all  things  equal:  I  have  heard 
By  mine  ow^n  heart  this  joyous  truth  averred: 
The  spirit  of  the  worm  beneath  the  sod 
In  love  and  worship  blends  itself  with  God."" 

With  this  absorption  of  aU  things  in  the  Whole  —  the  "One" 
of  Adonais  —  Byron  combines  a  Wordsworthian  mysticism, 
an  attempt  to  be  "one  with  Nature,"  to  grasp  the  ultimate 
reality  of  things  and  to  experience  that  actual  community 
with  the  Highest  which  is  of  the  essence  of  mysticism.  But 
this  mystical  pantheism  is  only  a  passing  mood  of  Byron's 
thought,  and  Manfred  is  the  only  one  of  the  plays  wliich  it 
influenced  directly.^  When  Wordsworth  said,*  with  acknow- 
ledged reference  to  Byron,  that  the  "words  which  practised 
talent   readily   affords"   were   not   unimpeachable   evidence   of 

^  See  especially  stanzas  99 — 104,  and  compare  the  passages  cited  by 
Eimer,  p.  408.  Cf.  also  Childe  Harold  IV,  174,  where  the  "fair  Spirit"  may 
be  considered  as  this  Spirit  of  the  Universe  which  is  Love.  Mr.  Coleridge 
thinks  it  expresses  a  desire  for  "the  support  and  fellowship  of  his  sister," 
which  is  perhaps  more  likely. 

*  Ejiipsycliidion,  11.  125 — 9. 

'^  The  pantheism  never  entirely  disappeared.    Cf.  The  Island  11,  382  f. 

*  Poems,  ed.  Wm.  Knight,  VII,  402:  "Not  in  the  lucid  intervals 
of  life." 

Hesperia,  B.  3.  11 


162  Chapter  Nine. 

"genuine  rapture,"  he  was  not  gracious  to  Byron's  memory, 
but  he  was  not  far  from  the  truth.  Except  in  the  passing 
mood  of  1816  there  was  in  Bjn'on  no  realization  of  the  Oneness 
of  nature  and  man,  no  conception  of  man  as  a  part  of  nature. 
He  has  the  sense  sublime  of  that  spu4t  whose  dwelling  is  the 
sunset  and  the  ocean  and  the  sky,  but  he  is  not  conscious  of 
it  in  the  mind  of  man.  Nature  and  man  are  in  essential  con- 
trariety. "All  save  the  spirit  of  man  is  divine."  Byron's 
outlook  upon  nature  is  therefore  objective.  From  the  "hum 
of  human  cities"  he  fhes  to  her  for  refreshment.  "Dear  Nature 
is  the  kindest  Mother  still."  "The  stiU,  sad  music  of  human- 
ity" is  not  heard  through  nature;  rather  she  affords  a  refuge 
from  its  harsh  and  grating  sounds.  In  the  midst  even  of  the 
thu'd  canto  this  is  shown: 

"Clear,  placid  Leman!  thy  contrasted  lake. 
With  the  wide  world  I  dweU  in,  is  a  thing 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction"  (stanza  85). 

Nature  is  the  "balm  of  hurt  minds."    Tired  of  the  fi^etful  stir 

and    fever  of  the  world    man  goes    to  her    for  relief.     Thus, 

gazing  from  his  balcony  over  the  moonht  canals  Lioni 
exclaims : 

"How  sweet  and  soothing  is  this  hour  of  calm! 
I  thank  thee,  Night!  for  thou  hast  chased  away 
Those  horrid  bodements  which,  amidst  the  throng, 
I  could  not  dissipate."^ 

But  this  healing  power  only  enforces  the  lesson.  "What  a 
contrast  with  the  scene  I  left,"  says  Lioni,  thinking  only  of 
the  ball  he  has  quitted;  but  we,  who  know  more,  contrast  the 
dark  conspiracy  overhanging  him  and  his  feUow-nobles  with 
the  calm  and  beauty  of  the  silent,  moonlit,  summer  night. 
Such  aloofness,  such  indifference,  at  such  a  time,  reveal  the 
stern  remorselessness  of  the  processes  of  nature ;  they  are  evidence 
of  that  "unalterable  law"  which  drove  down  again  the  aspiring 
spirit  of  Lucifer ;  they  enforce  the  opinion  that  natm'e  is  indifferent 


1  Marino  Faliero  IV,  1,  105!. 


The  Substance  of  the  Plays.  163 

to  the  wretched  strivmo^s  of  humanity,  a  great,  brooding  pre- 
sence, impassive,  moved  by  laws  that  no  man  can  comprehend 
and  no  man  change,  a  disinterested  and  impartial  witness  of 
the  tragedy  of  man; 

"The  world  which  was  ere  I  was  born; 
The  world  which  lasts  when  I  am  dead." 

There  are,  then,  in  Byron's  poetry  two  wholly  distinct  views 
of  natm-e,  the  one  subjective  and  intimate,  the  other  objective 
and  distinct  from  man.  Of  these  two  the  latter  is  the  cha- 
racteristicall}'  Byronic  attitude.  Both  views  appear  in  Manfred. 
B3a'on's  pantheistic  philosophy  developed,  as  I  have  said, 
in  1816,  and  is  best  expressed  in  Childe  Harold  III.  In  Man- 
fred, the  Shelleyan  "pantheism  of  love,"  and  the  feeling  that 
man  is  a  part  of  surrounding  Nature  do  not  exert  any  influ- 
ence.    There  is  a  slight  tendency  in  such  passages  as  — 

"Oh,  that  I  were 
The  viewless  spirit  of  a  lovely  sound"  etc.  (I,  ii,  52  f.) 

to  the  sentimental  and  mystical  interpretation  of  nature  which 
seeks  to  attain  that  mood  in  which  there  shall  be  complete 
harmony  between  nature  and  man,  in  which  nature  and  man 
shall  be  that  One  which  is  Spinoza's  God.  But  the  pantheism 
of  Manfred  is  rather  that  polytheism  which  peoples  hills  and 
seas  and  streams  with  the  Powers  of  earth  and  air,  a  spirit- 
ualization  of  nature  and  her  phenomena,  from  which,  however, 
man  stands  apart.  This  is  the  theme  behind  the  appearance 
of  the  "Spirits  of  the  unbounded  Universe"  in  the  first  scene, 
one  of  which  is  the  spirit  of  the  clouds,  another  of  the  moun- 
tains, a  third  of  the  waters,  a  fourth  of  the  earthquake,  a  fifth 
of  the  wind,  and  a  sixth  of  the  night.  Compare  the  phrase 
"the  Spirit  of  each  spot"  in  Childe  Harold  (III,  74,  and  cf.  IV, 
68  and  74).  So  also  the  Witch  of  the  Alps  is  called  "the 
spirit  of  the  place"  (II,  ii,  11).  Yet  Manfred,  the  human  being, 
is  almost  always  apart  fi^om  nature.     Though 

"the  Night 
Hath  been  to  me  a  more  famihar  face 
Than  that  of  man;  and  in  her  starry  shade 
Of  dim  and  solitary  loveliness, 

I  learned  the  language  of  another  world"  (III,  iv,  3  f.), 

n* 


164  Chapter  Nine. 

yet  he  never  forgets  that  that  "visible  world,"  "so  glorious  in 
its  action  and  itself,"  is  in  splendid  contrast  to  man  — 

"We,  who  name  ourselves  its  sovereigns,  we 
Half  dust,  half  deity,  ahke  unfit 
To  sink  or  soar,  with  our  mixed  essence  make 
A  conflict  of  its  elements."  (I,  ii,  39  f.) 


Stud}^  of  Byron's  plays  has  shown,  I  think,  that  their 
value  is  both  absolute  and  relative.  They  offer  a  serious  con- 
sideration and  reflection  of  life,  of  man  in  relation  to  liis  fellows, 
to  nature,  and  to  the  mystery  that  is  before  him  and  behind 
and  that  wraps  liim  round.  But  this  positive  worth  is  haimed 
by  Byron's  lack  of  technicEd  ability;  the  relative  value  is  there- 
fore of  chief  importance.  The  plays  shed  light  upon  Byron's 
life  and  character,  upon  his  non-dramatic  work,  upon  the  con- 
temporary di'ama  English  and  foreign,  and  upon  the  stimng 
period  of  national  awakening  in  the  midst  of  which  they  were 
composed.  If  I  have  made  this  clear  I  shall  have  accompHshed 
the  task  that  I  set  myself  to  do. 

There  has  been  of  late  a  considerable  heightening  of  the 
estimation  in  which  the  work  of  Byron  is  held.  The  long 
period  of  anti-Byronism,  which  may  be  dated  from  the  pubh- 
cation  of  Sartor  Resartus  and  Philip  van  Arteveldt,  is  now 
happily  past.  In  this  reaction  the  influence  of  Ruskin,  Swin- 
burne and  Lord  Morley  has  had  a  large  share.  I  hope  to 
publish  shortly  an  account  of  the  development  of  Byronic 
criticism  and  the  philosophic  basis  of  the  recent  change.  Men 
see  that  the  Tennysonian  tradition,  inherited  fi^om  Keats,  is 
not  the  final  word  in  English  poetry;  and,  with  the  break  up 
of  the  old  order  and  rapid  disappearance  of  the  "Victorian 
compromise,"  some  have  turned  anew  to  Byron  for  inspu-ation 
and  stimulus.  The  tawdry  and  outworn  garments  of  "Byron- 
ism"  —  dandyism,  Wertherism,  scandal,  pose  —  have  fallen  in 
rags  away  and  can  no  longer  hide  the  real  man  beneath. 
The  poet  himself  appears  as  the  herald  of  awakening  demo- 
cracy, "the  trumpet  at  her  lips,  her  clarion,  full  of  her  cry, 
sonorous  with  her  breath;"  no  voice  merely  of  disorder  and 
revolt,  but  a  leader  in  the  movement  for  positive  upbuilding 
upon  new  and  firmer  foundations. 


Byron  and  the  Dramatic  Unities.  165 

Appendix  I. 
Byron  and  the  Dramatic  Unities. 

On  the  history  of  the  unities  in  England  to  the  j^ear  1700, 
see  the  careful  study  by  L.  S.  Friedland.*  Byron's  knowledge 
of  the  criticism  that  has  been  summarized  in  that  monograph 
was  scanty.  He  had  probably  read  Sidney's  Apologie  for  Poetry ^ 
He  may  have  recognized  the  allusions  to  the  unities  in  Shake- 
speare.* The  works  of  Ben  Jonson/  whom  he  regarded  as 
"a  scholar  and  a  classic"  (LJ.  V,  330),  could  hardly  have  served 
as  models,  for  Jonson's  comedies  only  are  strictly  regular  and 
Byron's  concern  is  with  tragedy.  But  planning  a  "regular" 
drama  amid  the  wildest  license  of  romanticism,  he  must  have 
perceived  with  sympathy  the  analogy  between  Jonson  and 
himself.  Of  opinions  expressed  by  minor  Elizabethans^  Byron 
probably  knew  nothing. 

With  the  works  of  Dryden  Byron  was  thoroughly  familiar. 
That  he  had  studied  the  arguments  for  and  against  the  unities 
in  the  Essay  of  Dramatic  Poesy^  is  proved  by  a  close  verbal 
reminiscence  not  previously  noted.'    Byron  failed  to  profit  by 

^  "The  Dramatic  Unities  in  England,"  Jour.  Eng.  and  Germ.  Phil. 
X,  56  f. 

^  See  G.  Gregory  Smith,  Elisahethan  Critical  Essays,  Oxford,  1904, 
I,  197. 

*  Note  especially  in  the  opening  chorus  of  Henry  V  the  references  to 
the  "wooden  0"  and  the  "hour  glass."  Cf.  the  prologues  to  Acts  II  and  V 
of  the  same  play,  the  chorus  to  Act  IV  of  Tlie  Winter's  Tale,  and  Cym- 
beline  II,  iv,  27. 

*  Note  the  reference  in  the  Induction  to  Every  Man  out  of  his 
Humour  to  the  rule  that  "the  whole  argument  fall  within  the  compasse  of 
a  dales  efficiencie."  See  also  the  preface  to  Sejanus  and  the  Prologue  to 
Volpone.  See  further  P.  Aronstein,  "Ben  Jonson's  Theorie  des  Lustspiels," 
Anglia,  XVII,  479. 

^  Dekker,  Marston,  Middleton,  Heywood,  and  Florio.  See  Friedland, 
p.  71  f. 

"  Essays  of  John  Dryden,  ed.  W.  P.  Ker,  Oxford,  1900,  11,  21  f. 

'  "The  universal  consent  of  the  most  civilised  parts  of  the  world  onght 
in  this,  as  it  doth  in  other  customs,  to  include  the  rest"  (Ker  I,  98).  Cf. 
".  .  .  An  opinion,  which,  not  very  long  ago,  was  the  law  of  literature  through- 
out the  world,  and  still  is  so  in  the  more  civilised  parts  of  it"  (Preface  to 
Sardanapalus,  P.  V,  9). 


166  Appendix  I. 

Neander's  arguments  in  favor  of  the  English  drama.  He  was 
probably  hindered  in  appreciation  of  the  value  of  Dryden's 
criticism  by  the  latter's  frequent  and  characteristic  vacillations 
of  opinion.'  Tlu'ough  Johnson's  Life  of  Addison"^  he  knew 
Dennis's  strictures  on  Cato.  It  is  highly  probable  that  the 
source  of  Byron's  one  reference  to  Rymer  is  Dryden's  Heads 
of  an  Answer  to  Eijmer  as  printed  in  Johnson's  Life  of  Drijden.^ 
He  may  have  read  Rymer's  two  little  books;  at  all  events  he 
was  in  sj^mpafhy  with  the  school  of  Rymer.*  Of  other  critics 
of  the  age  of  Dryden  it  is  sufficient  to  mention  Collier,  Shef- 
field, Congreve,  and  Farquhar,  with  whose  works  Byron  must 
have  been  acquainted.  They  all  uphold  with  greater  or  less 
enthusiasm  the  authority  of  the  rules.  ^ 

The  trend  of  eighteenth-century  criticism  was  awa}*  fi'om 
classicism.  A  series  of  writers  took  the  position  that  genius 
transcended  rules;*  then  a  few  questioned  the  validity  of  any 


^  See  Dryden's  first  Prologue  to  The  Maiden  Queen  ( Works,  ed.  Scott- 
Saintsbury,  II,  422  and  cf.  418).  In  reply  to  Howard's  attack  in  The  Great 
Favorite  (Spingarn,  Critical  Essays  of  the  Seventeenth  Century.  Oxford, 
1908,  II,  109)  Dryden,  in  his  Defence  (Ker  I,  116  f.),  through  eagerness  to 
refute  Howard,  took  a  more  "regular"  position  than  he  would  else  have  done. 
See  also  the  Prefaces  to  Don  Sebastian  and  All  for  Love  and  the  Dedi- 
cations to  Love  Triumphant  and  the  .Mneis. 

2  Lives  of  the  Poets,  ed.  J.  B.  Hill,  II,  136  f.  See  also  Dennis,  The 
Impartial  Critic  (Spingarn,  III,  148);  Friedland,  p.  458  f.;  D.  Nichol  Smith, 
Eighteenth  Century  Essays  on  Shakespeare,  Glascow,  James  Maclehose, 
1903,  p.  xvi  f .  and  24  f . ;  and  H.  G.  Paul,  John  Dennis,  New  York,  Columbia 
Univ.  Press,  1911,  p.  173  and  cf.  p.  39. 

^  When  Byron  (LJ.  V,  284)  professes  to  quote  from  Rymer  he  in 
reality  cites  Dryden's  Heads.     Cf.    Works,  ed.  Scott-Saintsbury,  XV,  387. 

*  Byron's  deference  to  the  authority  of  Rymer  may  be  due  in  part  to 
Pope's  favorable  opinion  (See  Spence,  Anecdotes,  ed.  1858,  p.  130). 

^  See  Jeremy  Collier,  A  Short  View  of  the  Immorality  and  Pro- 
faneness  of  the  English  Stage,  1698,  p.  230;  John  Sheffield,  Essay  on 
Poetry,  1682,  1.  177  f.  (Spingarn,  II,  101);  Congreve,  Dedication  and  Epilogue 
of  The  Double  Dealer,  and  cf.  Dryden's  To  my  dear  Friend,  Mr.  Congreve. 
Oft  his  comedy  called  The  Double  Dealer.  1.  58  f. ;  Farquhar,  Discourse 
on  Comedy,  1702,    Works,  1718,  I,  75  f. 

6  See  D.  Nichol  Smith,  p.  xv;  Addison,  Spectator  No.  592;  Pope,  in  the 
Preface  to  his  Shakespeare  (D.  Nichol  Smith,  p.  50),  but  contrast  The  Dun- 
ciad  1,  71. 


Byron  and  the  Dramatic  Unities.  167 

rules  at  all,'  and  even  satirized  them;^  and  finally  Lord  Kames' 
and  Hurd*  found  aesthetic  justification  for  "Gothic,"  as  distinct 
from  "classical,"  rules  of  art.  Thus  the  pathway  was  prepared 
for  Johnson's  influential  defence  of  Shakespeare'*  and  for  the 
formulation  by  Lessing  of  the  principles  of  Shakespeare's  art. 
Johnson  settled  the  question  of  the  unities  in  England.  A  few 
pedants,  aided  by  the  influence  of  Voltaire,  continued  to 
criticise  the  loose  construction  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  and  as 
late  as  1774  the  anonymous  Cursory  Remarks  on  Tragedy 
shows  traces  of  the  school  of  Rymer.  This  romanticism  in- 
fluenced Byron  negatively.  With  much  of  it  he  must  have 
been  acquainted;  and  for  Johnson's  critical  powers  he  had  high 
regard,  yet  he  was  not  swayed  in  his  allegiance  by  the  Doctor's 
sledgehammer  blows.  Or  one  may  say  that  he  followed,  not 
the  precepts  of  the  Preface,  but  the  example  of  Irene. 

In  Byron's  own  age  —  the  high-tide  of  romanticism  — 
the  doctrine  of  the  unities,  with  all  other  articles  of  the  classical 
creed,  had  been  swept  ever  further  into  the  background.  They 
were  no  longer  a  question  even  for  speculative  discussion  and 
references  to  them  are  few  and  almost  without  exception  un- 
sympathetic.®    The  exception  is  Byron  himself.    How  came  it 


^  See  the  Remarks  on  the  Tragedy  of  Hamlet,  1736,  anonymous,  but 
generally  attributed  to  Sir  Thomas  Hanmer  (D.  Nichol  Smith,  p.  xx,  note  i), 
and  Sir  Thomas  Upton's  Critical  Observations  on  Shakespeare,  1746,  I,  16 
and  77. 

2  Fielding,  Tom  Jones,  bk.  V,  chap.  i. 

'  Eletnents  of  Criticism,,  1762,  II,  404  f. 

*  Richard  Hurd,  Letters  on  Cliivalry  and  Romance,  1762,  ed.  E.  J. 
Morley,  London,  Frowde,  1911,  p.  122  and  passim,. 

^  Especially  in  the  Preface  to  his  Shakespeare.  Cf.  S.  C.  Hart,  Rowe, 
p.  xliii;  Walter  Raleigh,  Johnson  on  Shakespeare,  London,  Frowde,  1911, 
p.  29;  and  D.  Nichol  Smith,  p.  130.  See,  too,  The  Rambler,  No.  156  and 
contrast  Irene. 

®  In  the  preface  to  the  Plays  of  the  Passions,  vol.  II  (ed.  1851, 
p.  105)  Joanna  Baillie  shows  appreciation  of  the  advantage  of  adhering  in  a 
general  way  to  the  unity  of  time.  A  like  consciousness  appears  in  the 
"Advertisement"  to  Coleridge's  Zapolya  {Complete  Poetical  Works  II,  883), 
but  Coleridge  was  thoroughly  English  and  romantic.  In  the  Biographia 
Literaria  (p.  559)  he  refers  to  "the  old  blunder  .  .  .  concerning  the  irregu- 
larity of  Shakespeare."  Neither  Wordsworth  nor  Keats  refers  to  the  unities, 
but  Shelley's  Letters  contain  some  important  strictures  on  Marino  Faliero 


168  Appendix  I. 

that  he,    the  typical  romantic   poet,    championed    so   typically 
classical  a  creed?  * 

I  find  it  explicable  on  several  grounds.  Of  these  his 
knowledge  of  past  criticism  of  the  subject  was  of  least  im- 
portance. I  have  just  shown  how  little  English  theory  in- 
fluenced him.  Continental  opinions  weighed  more  with  him; 
"True  Briton  all  beside,  1  here  am  French,"  he  wrote  of  the 
drama.'*  Of  Aristotle  and  the  critics  of  the  early  Italian  Re- 
nascence his  knowledge,  at  the  most,  was  vague;  there  is  no 
evidence  that  he  had  first-hand  acquaintance  with  any  of  them." 
His  information  on  French  criticism  was  generally  derivative. 
He  never  mentions  the  earlier  advocates  of  the  unities*  and 
it  is  significant  that  he  never  appeals  to  the  authority  of  Gor- 
neille  whose  three  Discours  he  probably  knew  only  through 
the  medium  of  Dryden,  He  apparently  knew  as  little  of 
Racine  for  a  chance  remark  on  the  lack  of  poetry  in  Racine's 
plays  must  be  due  to  ignorance  or  inabilit}^  to  appreciate  the 
beauties  of  French  verse.  There  is  nevertheless  a  close  resem- 
blance in  method  and  object  between  Racineian  and  B3a"onic 
tragedy.  Of  BoUeau  he  knew  more;'^  doubtless  he  had  read 
and  drew  support  from   the   opening  lines   of  the  third  book 


(II,  888,  910,  912).  Scott  defends  the  unities  at  length  in  his  preface  to 
Dryden's  All  for  Love  (Scott's  Dryden,  ed.  1808,  V,  287),  and  criticises  them 
in  the  Essay  on  the  Drama  in  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica,  1819. 
Cf.  also  Lockhart,  VI,  257  and  283.  See  also  Milman,  Poetical  Works  I,  xiii 
and  107 ;  Allan  Cunningham,  Sir  Marmaduke  Maxwell,  1822,  p.  vi. 

1  See  especially  P.  IV,  340;  V,  9;  LJ.  V,  90,  167,  217,  310,  323,  324, 
347,  372,  etc. 

^  Hints  from  Horace  1.  271. 

^  The  passages  in  Aristotle's  Poetics  are  V,  4;  VII,  3  and  6;  VIII,  1,  2, 
and  4.     Three  references  to  Aristotle  in  Don  Juan  are  noteworthy:  I,  cxx; 

I,  cci;  III,  cxi.  For  the  Italian  critics  it  is  sufficient  to  refer  here  to  J.  E. 
Spingarn,  Literary  Criticism  of  the  Renascence,  New  York,  Macmillan, 
1899,  p.  89  f. 

*  See  E.  Dannheisser,  "Zur  Geschichte  der  Einheiten  in  Prankreich," 
Zeit.  fran.  Sprach.  Litt.  XIV,  1  f .  Pressure  of  space  has  forced  me  to  omit 
here  a  discussion  of  Jean  de  la  Taille,  Vauquelin  de  la  Fresnaye  {Art  Poctique 

II,  1.  225  f.),  De  Laudun  (Spingarn,  I.  c,  p.  209),  Chapelain,  Mairets,  Desma- 
rets,  etc. 

^  See  Hints  froin  Horace,  1.  183,  note;  Childe  Harold  IV,  xxxviii; 
LJ.  IV,  491  f. 


Byron  and  the  Dramatic  Unities.  169 

of  L'Art  PoStiqice.  To  Voltaire  Byron  refers  frequently;  in 
Don  Juan  (XV,  59)  he  classes  him  with  Shakespeare;  to  him 
he  must  have  owed  in  part  the  prejudice  with  which  he  re- 
garded tlie  Elizabethan  dramatists.  He  read  some  of  Voltaire's 
plays;  whether  he  met  with  the  various  remarques  on  the  uni- 
ties* I  do  not  know,  —  it  is  likely.  He  may  also,  for  he 
mentions  both  of  tliem  occasionally,  have  read  Diderot  and 
Marmontel  on  the  unities."  The  important  point  is  that,  whether 
deriving  his  knowledge  at  first-  or  second-hand,  Byron  knew 
the  tenor  of  French  criticism  and  recognised  it  as  the  criterion 
of  regularity  in  the  drama. 

Signs  of  reaction  fi'om  classical  formalism  are  apparent  in 
France  towards  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century.*  In  this 
change  the  illuminating  pages  of  the  Hamhiirgische  Dramaturgie, 
1767 — 1768.  had  a  great  part,  but  Byron's  ignorance  of  German 
makes  it  doubtful  whether  he  had  read  Lessing.  But  Lessing 
influenced  A.  W.  von  Schlegel,  whose  lectures  on  dramatic  art 
and  literature,  1808,  were  read  by  Mme.  de  Stael.  In  De 
I' Allemagne,*  a  book  that  BjTon  liked  "prodigiously"  (LJ.  11, 
364),  she  echoes  Schlegel's  attack  upon  the  unities  and  passes 
on  the  new^  sentiments  to  Henri  Beyle,  whose  Racine  et  Shake- 
speare, 1822,  became  a  text-book  of  the  Romantics.^ 

In  my  second  chapter  I  showed  how  Byron  grew  disgusted 


*  See  the  Preface  to  the  1730  edition  of  CEdipe,  (Euvres  completes, 
ed.  Louis  Moland,  Paris,  Gamier,  11,  48  f.;  Discours  sur  la  Tragedie,  pre- 
fixed to  Brutus,  1731,  ibid.  11,  319;  Remarques  sur  les  Discours  de  Cor- 
neille,  ibid.  XXXII,  347  and  cf.  366;  Remarques  sur  le  Cid,  ibid.  XXXI, 
212  and  cf.  328  See  further  L.  Koelher,  "Die  Einheiten  des  Ortes  und  der 
Zeit  in  den  Trauerspielen  Voltaires,"  Zeit.  fran.  Sprach.  Litt.  XXIII,  1  f. 
and  Lessing's  Critique  on  M&rope,  Hamburgische  Dramaturgie,  Nos.  45 
and  46. 

*  See  the  "Premier  Entretien"  in  Diderot's  Le  Fils  Naturel,  (Euvres 
completes,  ed.  J.  Assezat,  Paris,  Gamier,  VII,  87  f .  Marmontel  wrote  the 
article  "Unites"  in  the  1777 -supplement  to  the  Encyclopedic.  See  also 
Lounshury,  Shakespeare  and  Voltaire.  New  York,  Scribner,  1902,  p.  336  f. 

*  Of  this  change  Mercier's  Du  Theatre,  ou  nouvel  Essai  sur  Vart 
dramatique,  1773,  is  typical.     See  also  Lounsbury,  p.  180  f. 

*  Part  n,  chapter  xxxi.  > 

*  See  further,  P.  Nebout,  Le  Drame  Romantique,  Paris,  Lecene.  Oudin 
1895,  p.  68  f .  The  great  preface  to  Hugo's  Cromwell  is  beyond  the  limits 
of  our  present  subject. 


170  Appendix  I. 

with  the  EngHsh  theatre  and  turned  more  and  more  to  a  foreign, 
pseudo-classical  standard  of  taste  in  the  drama.  Alfieri's  in- 
fluence was  not  without  weight  in  this  change.  But  of  more 
importance  was  Byron's  own  temperament.  In  spite  of  his 
energetic  individualism  Byron  was  not  always  easy  in  his 
lawlessness.  There  was  in  him  an  instinctive  obedience  to 
authority.  This  is  shown  by  that  "classical"  taste  which  appears 
in  so  much  of  his  works,  especially  his  criticisms  of  poetry. 
In  his  early  satires  and  occasional  verse  he  is  a  disciple  of 
Pope*  whom  he  considered  "the  greatest  name  in  our  poetry" 
(LJ.  V,  274),  ''the  moral  poet  of  all  civilization"  (LJ.  V, 
560). '^  Eimer'  says:  "Pope  war  nicht  nur  Byrons  Vorbild 
in  der  Form,  in  der  Didaktik  und  Satire,  sondem  auch  in  den 
Grundlagen  der  philosophischen  Anschauung;"  and  he  has 
shown*  how  much  the  pantheism  of  1816,  generally  (and  I 
think  rightly)  ascribed  to  the  influence  of  Wordsworth  and 
Shelley,  may  perhaps  be  traced  to  Pope.^  His  opinion  of 
living  poets  was  governed  by  the  same  standard.  "We  are 
all  wrong  except  Rogers,  Grabbe  and  Campbell,"  he  Avrote 
(LJ.  IV,  489).  "He  never  recognized,"  says  Nichol  (p.  204), 
"the  meaning  of  the  artistic  movement  of  his  age."  He  always 
regretted  "the  good  old  style  of  our  elders  and  betters"  (LJ. 
Ill,  213).  He  had  no  interest  in  "old  ballads;"  he  disliked  that 
crew  of  "turbid  mountebanks,"  the  lesser  Elizabethan  drama- 
tists (LJ.  V,  218  and  cf.  II,  344);  he  condemned  all  the  poetrj^ 
of  the  "Lake  school"  save  part  of  Coleridge's;  he  did  not 
appreciate  Keats;  his  praise  of  Shelley  was  often  grudging. 
All  this  came  from  lack  of  sympathy  with  the  romantic  point 
of    view.      Similarly    Byron     distinguished     Shakespeare    the 


^  C.  M.  Fuess  {Lord  Byron  as  a  Satirist  in  Verse,  New  York,  Co- 
lumbia Univ.  Press,  1912,  p.  69  f.)  thinks  that  "in  many  respects  Byron  had 
more  in  common  with  Gifford  than  with  Pope." 

2  Cf.  LJ.  IV,  304  and  486;  V,  109,  154,  559,  etc. 

^  M.  Eimer,  Byron  und  der  Kosmos,  Angl.  Forsch.  34,  Heidelberg, 
1912,  p.  195. 

*  M.  Eimer,  "Byrons Pantheismus  vom  Jahre  1816,"  Eng.  Stud.  XLIII,  396 f. 

^  See  further  G.  S.  Weiser,  "Popes  Einfluss  auf  Byrons  Jugenddichtungen," 
Anglia  I,  252  f. ;  F.  Rover,  Lord  Bifrons  (xedanken  ilher  Alexander  Fopes 
Dichtkunst,  Erlangen,  1886,  passim;  and  the  literature  of  the  Byron-Bowles 
controversy. 


Byron  and  the  Dramatic  Unities.  171 

dramatist  and  Shakespeare  the  poet.  He  loved  and  admired 
the  poet  and  his  verse  abounds  in  Shakespearean  echoes;*  but 
the  methods  of  the  playwright  were  opposed  to  those  for  which 
Byron  stood. 

Byron  is  sweeping  in  his  condemnation  of  "the  detestable 
taste  of  the  day"  (LJ.  Ill,  5).  "I  look  upon  this  as  the 
declining  age  of  English  poetry,"  he  said  (LJ.  V,  559).'*  Self- 
criticism  is  of  frequent  occurrence  and  is  evidence  of  his 
sincerity.     An  early  couplet  is: 

"From  Horace  show  the  pleasing  paths  of  song, 
And  from  mj'  own  example  —  what  is  wrong."' 

With  such  views  it  was  but  natural  that  Byron,  accepting  the 
other  pseudo-classical  doctrines  of  art,  should  admit  the  validity 
of  the  rule  of  the  dramatic  unities. 

1  have  alread}^  pointed  out  that  the  classical  model  lent 
itself  to  Byron's  purposes,  in  that  he  laid  stress  upon  character 
and  motive  rather  than  upon  action.  This  doubtless  influenced 
his  choice.  Other  considerations  probably  added  force.  Byron 
was  tired  of  his  own  romantic  license.  Just  as  the  author  of 
The  Excursion  found  it  "pastime  to  be  bound  within  the  Sonnet's 
narrow  plot  of  gi^ound,"  so  Byron  sought  in  straitness  relief. 
Moreover  he  wished  to  show  what  he  could  accomplish  in  a 
field  far  removed  fi'om  that  with  which  he  was  associated  in 
the  popular  mind.  In  a  life  crowded  with  incidents  and 
emotional  experiences  the  construction  of  a  play  was,  like  the 
study  of  Armenian,  "something  craggy"  to  break  his  mind 
upon.  Then,  too,  there  is  the  appreciation  of  art  for  its  own 
sake,  a  view  of  the  value  of  Form,  which  is,  says  Lord  Morley 
(p.  224),  "collateral  proof  of  the  sanity  and  balance  which  marked 
the  foundations  of  his  character."  Like  all  artists  he  desired 
to  wrestle  with  Form,  to  bring  painfully  and  chip  by  chip  the 
statue  out  of  the  shapeless  stone.     For 

"I'oeuvre  sort  plus  belle 
D'une  forme  au  travail 
Rebelle." 

^  See  Ernst  Zabel,  Byrons  Kenntnis  von  Shakespeare  und  sein 
Urteil  uber  ihn,  Halle,  1904,  p.  56 f.  and  passim;  Kolbing,  "Byron  und 
Shakespeare's  Macbeth"  Eng.  Stud.  XIX,  300  f. ;  and  Appendix  III,  post. 

2  Cf.  LJ.  IV,  1(59  and  225;  V,  554. 

»  Hints  from  Horace,  1.  489  f.     Cf.  LJ.  IV,  486  and  489;  V,  559. 


I) 


Act  I, 

Scene  i. 

Act  I, 

Scene  ii. 

Act  II, 

Scene  i. 

Act  11, 

Scene  ii. 

Act  II, 

Scene  iii. 

Act  II, 

Scene  iv. 

Act  III, 

Scene  i. 

172  Appendix  I. 

Finally,  what  amount  of  attention  do  the  unities  actually 
receive  in  Byron's  plays? 

Manfred,  which,  because  of  its  irregularity,  Byron  called 
a  "dramatic  poem"  rather  than  a  drama,  has  ten  scenes,  no 
two  of  which  are  the  same.  The  phenomenon  of  "double-time" 
is  apparent  as  the  following  analysis  wiU  show,  the 'cOtn^g'St 
time  being  noted  in  parentheses. 

Midnight  (1). 

Morning  (The  following  day?) 
The  same  morning. 
Forenoon  (The  same  day?)^ 
Moon-rise  (The  same  evening?) 
The  same  night  as  II,  iii.  (2). 
The   next    day    (Gf.  "To-morrow  ends 
thine  earthly  iUs,"  II,  iv,  151). 
Act  III,  Scene  ii.     Sunset,  same  evening. 
Act  III,  Scene  iii.     Twilight,  same  evening. 
Act  III,  Scene  iv.     Night  (3). 
According  to   "short  time"   the   action   thus   extends  over  just 
forty-eight  hours  and  embraces  three  midnights.    But  in  three 
places  there  is  chance   for  analysis  according  to   "long  time." 
The   morning   on   the   cliffs   need   not   immediately  follow  the 
midnight  in  the  Gothic  hall ;  the  meeting  with  the  witch  need 
not  occur  just  after  the  episode  with  the  hunter;  nor  does  the 
rencontre  of  the  Destinies   have  to  happen  that  same  evening. 
Thus  the  poet  produces,  consciously  or  not,  the  impression  of 
Manfred's  protracted  wanderings  and  questionings   before   the 
final   release   of   death.     This   "double   time"    enables   one  to 
foUow    the    life    of   the    protagonist    for    an    extended    period 
without  sacrificing  the  dramatic  compression  that  "short  time" 
affords.     Of  this  Manfred  is  a  good  example.^ 

In  Marino  Faliero  the  unity  of  place  is  observed  loosely; 

'  In  this  scene  Byron  is  inconsistent,  as  is  Shakespeare  often,  in  indi- 
cating time.  Manfred's  first  words  are  "It  is  not  noon"  and  his  last  "The 
night  approaches."     Yet  the  scene  is  quite  short. 

*  Shakespeare's  employment  of  this  device  is  so  definite  that  it  must 
have  been  done  deliberately,  e.  //.  in  Othello,  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  and 
Twelfth  Night.  See  Furness,  Preface  to  Twelfth  Night,  Variorum  ed., 
p.  xxii.  For  its  use  by  other  dramatists  see  Mable  Buland,  The  Presenta- 
tion of  Time  in  the  Elizabethan  Drama,   Yale  Sttidies  XLIV.     It  is  not 


Byron  and  the  Dramatic  Unities.  173 

a  limited  change  of  locality,  "whither  reason  Tjan  be  led  by 
imagination,"  is  permitted.  There  are  twelve  scenes,  in  ten 
different  parts  of  Venice.  The  unity  of  time  is  kept  strictly 
with  some  compression  of  actual  history,  but  there  is  no  loss 
of  verisimilitude  save  possibly  in  the  fifth  act,  where  the  trial 
follows  hard  upon  the  arrest  of  Faliero,  and  his  execution  hard 
upon  the  trial.  In  Sardanapalus  the  unities  are  preserved 
according  to  the  most  rigid  French  requirements.  This  results 
in  some  loss  of  verisimilitude.^  In  The  Tiro  Foscari  Byron 
unbends  a  little;  the  action  passes  chiefly  in  the  Hall  of  the 
Ducal  Palace,  but  the  third  act  is  in  a  prison  and  the  fifth  in 
the  Doge's  private  apartment.  The  time  is  within  two  days. 
Cain  of  course  does  not  observe  the  unitj^  of  place,  but 
the  action  occupies  less  than  three  hours.  Gain  meets  Lucifer 
after  the  morning  sacrifice.  The  journey  through  the  Abyss 
of  Space  and  Hades  occupies  "scarcely  two  hours"  (III,  i,  54), 
and  from  Cain's  return  to  the  end  of  the  play  not  more  than 
an  hour  can  elapse.^  The  unity  of  place  is  again  disregarded 
in  Heaven  and  Earth,  though  the  time  extends  but  from  mid- 
night to  shortly  after  sum'ise  the  next  day.^  Werner  pays  no 
attention  to  any  unity;  localities  are  presented  that  are  far 
apart  and  the  time  extends  over  a  period  of  several  months.* 
So  also  in  The  Deformed  Transformed.  In  both  these  plays 
Byron  evinces  a  violent  reaction  from  the  straitness  to  which 
his  championship  of  the  unities  had  bound  hun. 

necessary  to  assume  conscious  effort  by  the  poet;  to  some  degree,  indeed,  it 
follows  inevitably  upon  a  consistent  indication  of  the  passage  of  time. 

^  See  Heber's  criticism  in  Quarterly  Review  XXVII,  486. 

^  There  is  a  slight  oversight  as  to  time.  By  no  computation  can  it 
be  noon,  yet  Adah  says  — 

"Ere  the  sun  declines 
Let  us  depart,  nor  walk  the  wilderness 
Under  the  cloud  of  night"  (IH,  i,  457  f.) 

8  Cf.  Scene  iii,  1.  295:  "The  East  is  kindling"  and  1.  738  "The  sun  .  .  . 
riseth." 

*  Byron's  carelessness  as  to  time  appears  again  in  Werner.  At  FV,  i,  17 
we  are  told  that  the  reign  of  Count  Siegendorf  is  "hardly  a  year  o'erpast 
its  honey-moon,"  whereas  the  narrative  of  Gabor  (V,  i,  221  f.)  refers  to 
"February  last"  (1.  229)  an  incident  which  occurred  before  the  Count's  return. 
The  interval  of  a  year  could  not  have  separated  the  two  events.  This  error 
was  pointed  out  in  the  Monthly  Review,  XCIX,  396.  Cf.  Kolbing,  Eng. 
Stud.  XVn,  147. 


174  Appendix  II. 

Appendix  II. 
Manfred  and  Faust. 

It  seems  worth  while  to  put  together,  with  some  additional 
comments  of  my  own,  whatever  has  been  suggested  bearing 
on  the  actual  indebtedness  of  Byron  in  Manfred  to  Goethe's 
Faust. 

Byron  must  have  known  the  Faust-story  before  he  became 
acquainted  with  Goethe's  play,  but  there  is  no  reason  to  doubt 
his  repeated  assertion  that  he  knew  nothing  of  Marlowe's 
Faustus  (LJ.  IV,  175  and  177).  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  reaffirm 
that  Byron  almost  certainly  knew  nothing  of  Hroswitha's 
Lapsus  et  Conversio  Theophili  Vice-domini  (tenth  centur}'),  the 
earhest  form  of  the  legend.  Any  knowledge  of  Calderon's  El 
Magico  Prodigioso  Byron  would  have  obtained  through  Shelley, 
and  the  latter's  interest  in  Spanish  apparently  did  not  begin 
until  two  5'ears  after  the  composition  of  Manfred.  ^  Galderon 
may  therefore  conceivably  have  influenced  The  Deformed  Trans- 
formed, but  hardly  Manfred. 

Byron  studied  German  as  a  boy,^  but  later  forgot  it  com- 
pletely and  knew  German  literature  onlj^  in  translation.^  His 
first  knowledge  of  Faust  was  probably  through  Mme.  de  Stael's 
De  I'Allemagne,  which  contains  an  analysis  of  the  drama  and 
a  translation  of  several  scenes.  Brandl  suggests*  that  when 
Byron  told  Medwin  "All  I  know  of  that  drama  is  from  a  sorry 
French  translation,"  he  was  referring  to  Mme.  de  Stael's.  This 
seems  likely.  In  August,  1816,  M.  G.  Lewis  translated  to  Byron 
several  scenes,  or  less  probably  the  whole,  of  Faust  (LJ.  IV, 
97  and  174).  To  this  E.  H.  Coleridge  (P.  IV,  81)  traces  "the 
primary  conception"  of  the  poem.  There  is  no  evidence  that 
SheUey  read  Faust  to  Byron  at  this  time;*^  and  judging  from 
his  letters  Shelley's  interest  in  Faust  belongs  to  the  last  3-ear 
or    two    of    his    life.      In    a    characteristically    impatient    and 


1  Letters  II,  719. 
"^  Medwin,  p.  125. 

^  On  Byron's  relations  to  Germany  see  M.  Elmer,  "Byrous  Beziehungen 
zur  deutschen  Kultur,"  Anglia  XXXVI,  313  f.  and  397  f. 

*  "Goethes  Verhaltnis  zu  Byron,"   Goethe- Jahrbuch  XX,  30. 
s  See  Eng.  Stud.  XLIV,  300;  Anglia  XXXVI,  440. 


Manfred  and  Faust.  175 

emphatic  mood  Byron  exclaimed,  "The  devil  may  take  both 
Faustuses,  German  and  English  —  I  have  taken  neither"  (LJ.  IV, 
177),  but  in  the  phrase  already  quoted  —  "much  more  than 
Faustus"  —  he  acknowledged  the  debt. 

How  large  this  debt  was  has  been  a  matter  of  dispute. 
Koeppel*  goes  so  far  as  to  declare  that  Faust  was  the  dramatic  form 
on  which  Byron  modeled  Manfred.  Groag  says,*^  "Die  Ahnhchkeit 
der  beiden  grossartigen  Dichtungen  ist  gar  nicht  zu  verkennen. 
Ja  manche  Stellen  in  Manfred  klingen  sogar  wie  eine  etwas 
freie  Ubersetzung  des  deutschen  Originals."  He  qualifies  this 
broad  statement,  however,  by  applying  it  especially  to  the  first 
act.  It  is  certain  that  the  chief  resemblances  occur  early  in 
the  dramas.  These  have  been  pointed  out  by  Brandl  (p.  7 — 8) 
and  others,  and  shall  be  resumed  here  with  comments  and 
certain  qualifications.  Byron  himself  admitted  that  the  opening 
scenes  were  much  alike  (LJ.  V,  37).  Manfred  is  discovered  in 
"a  Gothic  gallery;"  Faust,  "in  einem  hochgewolbten,  engen, 
gothischen  Zimmer."  There  is  in  each  case  a  long  opening 
monologue,  the  theme  being  the  ceaseless  striving  after  know- 
ledge, the  further  penetration  into  recesses  of  thought,  with  ever 
the  same  result,  —  the  realization  of  the  falsity  of  the  promise 
"Eritis  sicut  Deus,  scientes  bonum  et  ynalum."  The  despairing 
cynicism  of  Faust's  cry: 

"Da  steh  ich  nun,  ich  armer  Thor! 

Und  bin  so  klug,  als  wie  zuvor"  (1.  358  f.) 

is  the  burden  of  Manfred's  soliloquy.  It  is  Byron's  indebtedness 
to  Goethe  for  this  theme  —  that  Man  possesses 

"Of  knowledge  —  just  so  much  as  shows  that  still 
It  ends  in  ignorance  on  every  side"  *  — 

that  makes  Mr.  Coleridge  trace  the  primary  conception  of  the 
character  to  Faust.  Byron  has  motived  the  conventional 
misanthropy,  which  had  already  been  portrayed  in  a  long 
line  of  heroes. 

Manfred,  like  Faust,  has  power  over  spirits  and  conjures 
them  up.  Instead  of  the  Spirit  of  the  Earth,  who  appears  to 
Faust,  Manfred   summons  the  "Spnits  of  the  unbounded  Uni- 

*  Emile  Koeppel,  Lord  Byron,  Berlin,  Hofmann,  1903,  p.  110. 

^  J.  G.  Groag,  Lord  Byron  als  Dramatiker,  Linz,  1877,  p.  24. 

*  Browning,  Parleyings,   With  Francis  Furini,  1.  283  f. 


176  Appendix  II. 

verse;"  that  is,  the  all-embracing  Earth-spirit  is  represented 
by  spirits  of  the  various  and  individual  phenomena  that  together 
make  up  earth.  In  both  cases  the  pantheism  is  fundamentally 
the  same. 

These  spirits  are  at  fu'st  invisible  to  Manfred,  and  when 
one  of  them  appears  "in  the  shape  of  a  beautiful  female  figure" 
he  is  unable  to  endure  the  sight  and  falls  senseless.  Brandl 
compares  this  to  Faust's  cowering  fear  in  the  presence  of  the 
Earth-spirit  —  "Soil  ich  dir,  Flammenbildung,  weichen?"  (1.  499) 
—  and  there  is  certainly  an  analogy,  but  the  conception  is 
common  to  many  scenes  in  which  a  mortal  beholds  a  spirit, 
and  I  believe  that  this  "Seventh  Spirit"  who  appears  to  Man- 
fred was  suggested  by  quite  another  incident  in  Faust.  The 
identification  of  this  figure  has  been  disputed.  Mr.  Coleridge's 
note  (to  I,  i,  187)  is,  "It  is  evident  that  the  female  figure  is 
not  that  of  Astarte,  but  of  the  subject  of  the  'Incantation'."  Mr. 
Edgcumbe  writes  (p.  293),  "The  Spirit,  which  appeared  to  ^lanfi-ed 
in  the  form  of  a  beautiful  female  figure,  was  Mary  Chaworth." 
That  is,  putting  to  one  side  the  autobiographical  meaning 
which  underlies  the  poem,  Mr.  Edgcumbe  identifies  this  figure 
with  Astarte.  Gillardon^  says,  "Dieser  Geist  ist  der  Genius 
Manfi'ed's.  Er  erscheint  hier  als  wunderschone  Frauengestalt, 
spater  in  Akt  III,  Scene  iv,  als  furchtbarer  unterii'discher 
Damon."  And  again:  "Der  7.  Geist  in  Manfred  Akt  I,  Scene  i, 
der  Damon  in  Akt  III,  Scene  iv,  und  first  destiny  in  Akt  IV, 
Scene  iii  [sic  for  II,  iv]  sind  ein  und  dassellje  wie  sich  aus 
einem  Vergleich  der  betreffenden  SteUen  ergibt."  This  last 
view  may  be  dismissed  without  comment,  because  of  the  lack 
of  evidence  of  any  such  identification  and  the  a  -priori  im- 
probability of  so  un-Byronic  a  conception.  Nor  is  Mr.  Coleridge's 
explanation  more  plausible.  The  certainty  that  in  the  Incan- 
tation there  is  direct  reference  to  Lady  Byron  contradicts  this 
view,  as  do  the  words  of  passionate  longing  uttered  by  Manfred 
before  he  falls  senseless.  These  words  are  a  support  to  Mr. 
Edgcumbe's  theory  that  the  figure  and  Astarte  are  the  same, 
but  her  introduction  here   would  be  an  inartistic  anticipation 


1  Heinrich  Gillardon,   Shelley's  Einwirkung  auf  Byron,  Heidelberg. 
1899,  p.  98. 


Manfred  and  Faust.  177 

of  the  climax  of  the  drama.  My  own  belief  is  that  the  appa- 
rition of  the  "beautiful  female  figure"  with  whom  Manfred 
"3'et  might  be  happy"  is  an  indistinct  reminiscence  of  "das 
schdnste  Bild  von  einem  Weibe,"  which  Faust  sees  in  the 
Witch's  mirror  (1.  2436).  Manfred's  exclamation  at  the  sight 
of  the  figure  recalls  Faust's  final  aspiration: 

"Lass  mich  nur  schnell  noch  in  den  Spiegel  schauen! 

Das  Frauenbild  war  gar  zu  schon!"  (1.  2599  f.) 

But  whereas  in  Faust  the  figure  represents  the  temptations 
of  sensual  delight  that  will  make  him  see  a  Helen  in  every 
woman,  Manfred's  vision  is  more  neai"ly  analogous  to  that  of 
Marlowe's  Faustus.  He  catches  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  the  Ideal 
towards  which  in  3^outh  he  had  striven,  but  which  had  long 
since  vanished.  Hence  his  exclamation.  The  influence  of 
Shelley  is  apparent.  Compare  lines  13—17  of  the  Hytmi  to 
Intellectual  Beauty: 

"Spirit  of  Beauty,  that  dost  consecrate 

With  thine  own  hues  all  thou  dost  shine  upon 
Of  human  thought  or  form,  —  where  art  thou  gone? 
Why  dost  thou  pass  away  and  leave  our  state. 
This  dim  vast  vale  of  tears,  vacant  and  desolate?" 

In  Epipsychidion  (1.  22  f.),  this  Ideal  is  invoked  as  — 

"Veiling  beneath  that  radiant  form  of  Woman 

AU  that  is  insupportable  in  thee 

Of  Hght,  and  love,  and  immortality." 

Thus  a  suggestion  from  Faust  has  been  given  a  new  meaning 
through  contact  with  Shelle3^ 

After  the  departure  of  Wagner,  in  the  same  First  Study 
Scene,  Faust  falls  into  a  train  of  meditation  that  leads  to  a 
determination  to  put  an  end  to  his  life,  and  as  he  is  about 
to  drink  from  the  deadly  phial  the  Chorus  of  Angels  breaks 
in  upon  him  (1.  737  f.)  and  frustrates  his  design.  This  may 
have  lent  a  suggestion  to  the  second  scene  of  Manfred,  where 
a  like  suicidal  purpose  is  thwarted  by  the  intrusion  of  piety, 
in  the  person  of  the  Chamois-hunter,  but  Byron  had  already 
conceived  the  contrast  of  the  devotee  of  doctrinaire  religion 
and  the  seeker  after  absolute  truth;  and  in  Manfred's  revery 
there  is  as  much  of  Hamlet  and  Prometheus  as  of  Faust. 
Brandl  has  suggested,   with  some  hesitation,   that  the  Witch 

Hesperia,  B.3.  12 


178  Appendix  n. 

of  the  Alps  (Act  II,  Scene  ii)  may  owe  something  to  the  Hexen- 
kiXche.  The  contrast  is  here  more  striking  than  the  resemblance. 
Ruskin/  telling  of  his  delight  in  Byron,  says  that  B;yTon  "sym- 
pathized with  me  in  reverent  love  of  beaut}'  and  indignant 
recoQ  from  ughness.  The  Avitch  of  the  Staubbach  in  her 
rainbow  was  a  greatly  more  pleasant  vision  than  Shakespeare's, 
like  a  rat  without  a  taU,  or  Burns's,  in  her  cutty  sark,"  or,  he 
might  have  added,  Goethe's  with  her  family  of  apes.  There 
is  a  nearer  resemblance  to  Faust  in  the  offer  by  the  Witch 
of  the  Alps  of  her  power  if  Manfred  will  be  her  servant  (II, 
ii,  156).  The  same  theme  is  repeated,  with  a  like  refusal  of 
the  offer,  in  Cain  (I,  i,  303  f.)  In  both  the  motive  is  that  of 
the  contract  with  Mephistopheles,  which  is  certainly  copied  in 
The  Deformed  Transformed  (I,  i,  140).  All,  however,  go  back 
to  Matthew  IV,  9;  Luke  IV,  7. 

There  are  other  scattered  passages  later  in  Manfred  re- 
miniscent of  Faust.  The  mention  of  the  "gi'eat  festival"  in 
the  Hall  of  Arimanes  (II,  iii,  15)  recalls  the  Walpurgisyiacht, 
especially  as  the  First  Destiny  is  at  the  Summit  of  the  Jung- 
frau  on  her  way  to  the  festivgd.  Compare  the  toilsome  climb 
of  Faust  and  Mephistopheles,  guided  by  the  Ignis-fatuus.  The 
position  of  the  Hall  of  Arimanes,  high  in  the  clouds,  maj^  have 
been  influenced  by  the  Hexenelement  on  and  around  and  above 
the  Brocken.^  The  song  of  the  demon  Ashtaroth,  in  the  first 
version  of  the  third  act  of  Manfred  (P.  IV,  122,  1.  17  f.),  is  in- 
fluenced by  the  same  Witches'  Sabbath,  and  the  reference 
(I.  18)  to  the  "Raven -stone"  is  obviously  di'awn  from  the 
penultimate  scene  of  Faust.  The  final  scene  of  Manfred  has 
little  in  common  with  the  close  of  Faust,  especially  if  BjTon 
knew  of  the  promise  of  final  salvation  contained  in  the  Pro- 
logue, but  it  is  closely  related  to  the  legendary  form  of  the 
story  (reproduced  in  Marlowe's  terrible  conclusion),  and  to  the 
catastrophe  of  Don  Juan.^ 


^  Praeterita  I,  viii,   Works  XXXV,  150. 

'^  On  the  position  of  the  Hall,  see  Kolbing,  "Zu  Byrons  Manfred, "^  Eng. 
Stud.  XXiI,  140. 

'  Other  minor  resemblances  have  been  suggested.  Eimer  {Anglia  XXXVI, 
441)  thinks  certain  metrical  peculiarities  betray  the  influence  of  Faust. 
This  is  very  doubtful.    H.  Kraeger  {Der  Byronische  Heldentypus,  Munich, 


Shakespearean  Echoes  in  Marino  Faliero. 


179 


Appendix  III. 
Shakespearean  Echoes  in  Marino  Faliero. 

Marino  Faliero.  Shakespeare. 

"His  taking  off"  (I,  ii,  227).  "His  taking  off"  (l/ac6. 1,  vii,  20). 

The  Doge  takes  up  the  ducal     Prince  Henry  with  the  crown: 
crown:    "Hollow  bauble,"  etc.  "0  polished  perturbation! 

(I,  ii,  259  f.)     golden  care,"  etc.    {Henry  IV, 

PL  I,  IV,  V,  23). 

"There's  blood  upon  thy  face"      "There's  blood  upon  thy  face" 
(I,  ii,  334).  {Macb.  HI,  iv,  12). 

"Will  not  my  great  sires  leap      Juliet's    speech   before   taking 
from  the  vault,  the  sleeping  potion  (R.  and  J., 

Where  lie  two  doges  who  pre-  IV,  iii,  24  f .) 

ceded  me, 

And   pluck    me  down   among 
them?"  (I,  ii,  583  f.) 

The  scene  between  FaHero  and 

Angiola  (II,  i,  173f.) 

"The  same  sin  that  overthrew 

the  angels" 

(II,  i,  207  —  i.  e.  pride). 

"Milkiness  of  spirit"  (II,  ii,  80). 


The  scene  between  Brutus  and 

Portia  (Jul.  Caes.  II,  i,  ad  fin.) 

"By  that   sin  fell  the  angels" 

{Henry  VIII,  III,  ii,  441). 

"MUk  o'  human  kindness" 

{Mach.  I,  V,  18). 

''Mach:       If  we  should  fail? 
Ber:     They  never  fail  who  die     Lady  M:  We  fail ! 

In  a  great  cause."  But  screw  your  courage 

to  the  sticking  place 
And  we'U  not  fail" 

{Mach.  I,  vii,  59). 


''Cal:  But  if  we  fail  — 


1898,  p.  89)  compares  Faust's  and  Manfred's  fatal  love  —  a  vague  resem- 
blance. Brandl  (p.  8)  compares  the  exclamation  of  the  spirits,  "Crush  the 
worm!"  (II,  iv,  49)  to  that  of  the  Earth-spirit,  "Ein  furchtsam  weggekriimmter 
Wurm"  (1.  498). 

12* 


180 


Appendix  EH. 


Marino  Faliero. 
"Their  spirit  walks  abroad" 

(II,  ii,  97.) 


Shakespeare. 
"0  Julius  Caesar,  thou  art 

mightj^  yet! 
Thy  spirit  walks  abroad" 

{Jul.  Caes.  V,  iii,  94  f.) 
"I'll  make  assurance  double 
sure"  (Macb.  IV,  i,  83). 


// 


"Make  our  assurance  doubly 

sure"  (II,  ii,  156). 

"Covetous  of  brief  authority"      "Dressed  in  a  little  brief  author- 

(E,  ii,  188).         ity"  (ilfms./or.¥gas.n,ii,118). 

"I  have  set  my  little  left      "I  have  set  my  life  upon  a  cast" 
Of  Hfe  upon  this  cast"  {Rich.  Ill,  V,  iv,  9). 

(ni,i,  54f.) 

(Compare  also  Corsair,  U.  337 

and  1543). 
"Their  new  swords  well  flesh'd"       "Full  bravely  hast  thou  flesh'd    , 
(III,  ii,  15).      Thy  maiden  sword"  / 

(Compare  Corsair,  1.  623).  {Hen.  IV,  Pt.  I,  V,  iv,  133). 

"As  far  among  the  foe  as  any  he      Shakespearean  use  oihe,  e.  g.  — 
That  hears  me"       (HI,  ii,  61).      "I  am  that  he,  that  unfortunate 

he" 
{As  You  Like  It  III,  ii,  414). 
"A  king  of  shreds  and  patches" 
{Hamlet  III,  iv,  102). 

"We  have  scotched  the  snake, 
not  kiUed  it" 

{Macbeth  HI,  ii,  14). 
"I  blame  you  not  —  you  act  in      "  'Tis    no    sin    for    a    man    to 
your  vocation"  (III,  ii,  456).  labour  in  his  vocation" 

{Hen.  IV,  Pt.I,\,'n,  116). 
"The  multitudinous  seas  incar- 
nadine"    {Macbeth  II,  ii,  62). 

"Sweet  bodements" 

{Macbeth  IV,  i,  96). 

"And  spit  upon  my  Jewish 
gaberdine" 

{Mer.ofVm.,\,\n,  113). 


"A  thing  of  robes  and  trinkets' 
(in,  ii,  188) 

"VV^e  wUl  not  scotch, 
But  kiU"  (m,  ii,  268) 


"That  horrible  incarnadine" 
(IV,  ii,  147). 

"Tremendous  bodements" 

(IV,  ii,  185). 

Calendaro  spits  at  him 

(V,  i,  134). 


Shakespearean  Echoes  in  Marino  Faliero.  IQ\ 

Marino  Faliero.  Shakespeare. 

"Who  would  have  foreseen     "For  Banquo's  issue  have  I  filed 
That  Nature  could  be  filed  to         my  mind"  {Macbeth  111,  i,Q5). 

such  a  crime"       (V,  i,  192). 
{Com^areChilde Harold  III,  11 3). 

"Fortune  is  female:    from  my      "Fortune... 

youth  her  favors  Shown  like  a  rebel's  whore" 

Were  not  withheld"  (V,  i,  267).  (Macbeth  I,  ii,  14). 

"Fortune  ...  is  a  strumpet" 

(Hamlet  II,  ii,  239). 

"Look  to  the  Lady"  (V,  i,  325).      "Look  to  the  Lady" 

(Macbeth  II,  iii,  131). 

"Alas!  Signor,  "In  the  course  of  justice  none 
He  who  is  only  just  is  cruel;  of  us 

who  Should  see  salvation" 
Upon  the  earth  would  live  (Mer.  of  Ven.,  IV,  i,  199). 

were  all  judged  justly?" 

(V,  i,  362). 

"Noble  Venetians,  many  times      "Signior  Antonio,  many  a  time 
and  oft"  (V.  i,  479).         and  oft" 

(Mer  of  Ven.,  I,  iii,  107). 

"Thy  good  are  confiscate  unto  "Thy  lands  and  goods 

the  state"  (V,  i,  486).     Are,  by  the  laws  of  Venice, 

confiscate 
Unto  the  state  of  Venice" 

(Mer.  of  Ven.,  IV,  i,  310). 

"To  pull  in  resolution"  "I  pull  in  resolution" 

(V,  ii,  50).  (Macbeth  V,  v,  42). 

"The  Greek  "Banquo  smiles  upon  me 

Walks  o'er  thy  mart,  and  smiles  And  points  at  them  for  his" 
on  it  for  his"        (V,  iii,  59).  (Macbeth  IV,  i,  123). 

"A  barbarian  Vice  of  Kings"       "A  vice  of  kings" 

(V,  iii,  66).  (Hamlet  III,  iv,  98). 

"All  the  ills  of  conquer'd  states     "TiU  famine  cling  thee" 
shaU  cling  thee"  (V,  iii,  84).  {Macbeth  V,  v,  40). 

(Compare  Darkness,  1.  50) 


Errata. 

p.  21,  note  2:  for  "Bryon"  read  „Byron". 
P.  50,  line  22:  for  "he"  read  "the". 
P.  62,  note  1:  for  "Anqlia"  read  "Anglia". 
P.  69,  note  1:  title  should  be  italicised. 
P.  74,  last  line  of  note:  delete  "if". 


Vcrlag  von   Vatidcnbocch  &  Ruprecht   in   06tting«n. 

4.  Nature  in  Middle  High  German  Lyrics.   By  B.  Qu.  Morgan, 

Ph.  D.,  Univei-sity  of  Wisconsin,  Madison.    VIII,  220  S.     1912. 

Geh.  7  Ji\  Leinwdbd.  7,80  J6. 

fln  allgcmcincn  Untcrjud)ungen  uber  6ic  (EnttDtcflung  6es  noturgcfutjls  in 
£iteratur  unb  Kunjt,  msbc|on6ere  aud)  fiir  bic  3eit  6es  flitertums  unb  bcs  ITIittcU 
alters  feljlt  es  nid}t,  bagegen  mangelt  es  bis  je^t  DoIIjtQnbtg  an  jtatiftijdjct  Dur(i)= 
forfd)ung  gcnau  abgcgrcn3tcr  (Bebictc.  Siii^  ^ie  mittclaltcrlidjc  bcutjd)c  £i)rif  tdIII 
6ic  oorliegcnbc  llntcrjud)ung  bicfcn  niangcl  bcjeitigen. 

5.  Mixed  Preterites  in  German.    By  o.  P.  Rein,  Ph.  D.   Assi- 

stant Professor  in  the  University  of  North  Caroline.  VITI,  131  S. 
1915.  Geh.  4,60  J(^\  Leinwdbd.  5,40  M. 

6.  Der  TEeufel  in  ben  beut[d)en  geijtlid|en  Spiclen  bes  IHittel* 

alters  unb  ber  Reformations3eit.  oxn  Bcitrag  sur  £itcratur^ 
Kultur--  unb  Kir^engefd)i(^te  Dcutfd)Ianbs  non  Dr.  3.  HI.  Hubtotttr 
3nftruftor  an  ber  pur6ue=llniDcrfitt),  U.S.H.     1915.     (3m  Drucf.) 

7.  The  Attitude  of  Gustav  Freytag  and  Julian  Schmidt  to- 

ward  English    Literature   (1848 — 1862).     By  Lawrence 

Marsden  Price,  Ph.  D.,  Instructor  in  German  in  the  University 
of  Missouri.    VIII,  120  S.    1915. 

Geh.  etwa  4  ^^;  Leinwdbd.  etwa  4,80  J6. 

Qefperia  (ErgSnsungsrciljc: 


$d|riften  jur  engli|d?en  pijtiologte. 

Untcr  tHittoiriung  non  fjcrmann  dolli^  tjcrausgcg.  r»on  3omes  U).  Bright, 

^profcfforen  an  bcr  So^n?  .^optinS  UntDerftU)  tit  Baltimore. 

3n  mcljr  als  etner  f}in|i(i)t  crj(f)ien  es  sroecfrnfifeig,  bicienigcn  ITlonograpfjtctt 
bcr  Ejejpcria,  bic  fid)  Dortoicgcnb  auf  bic  englijdjc  Spradjc  unb  Citeratur  bc3ief)cn, 
3U  ciner  bcjonbercn  fibteilung  3ufammen3ufa}fcn.  Bilbct  bod)  bas  Stubium  bcs 
£nglifd)cn,  tocnn  aud)  in  getDiffem  Sinnc  nur  ein  ileil  ber  germani|d)cn  pf)iIoIogic, 
bo(^  3uglcid)  ein  flrbcitsgcbict  fur  fid),  bas  fotoot)!  an  bcr  Uniocrfitat  toic  an  bcr 
Sd)ulc  als  felbftanbigcs  5ad)  ^^r  bcutfd)en  ptjilologie  3ur  Scitc  ftef)t.  Demgcmfife 
rocrben  Sd)riften,  bic  in  bas  (Bcbiet  ber  englifd)cn  pt)iIoIogic  fallen,  als  €rgan3ungss 
retl)e  3ur  I)efpcria  erjd)cinen. 

1.  f)cft:  Some  Parallel  Formations  in   English.    By  Professor 

Francis  A.  Wood,  University  of  Chicago.    1913.    2,40  J6 ;  geb.  3  J6. 

2.  f)cft:   Historia  Meriadoci  and  de  Ortu  Waluuanii.     Two 

Arthurian  Romances  of  the  XIII th  Century  in  Latin  Prose.  By 
Professor  J.  Douglas  Bruce,  University  of  Tennessee.  Second 
Edition.  Texts  revised  and  corrected.  Introduction  re-written  and 
enlarged.     1913.  3  J6\  geb.  3,80  Ji. 

3.  Jjcft:  The  Dramas  of  Lord  Byron.  A  Critical  Study  by  Samuel 

C.  Chew,  Ir.,  Ph.  D.  Associate  in  English  Literature  in  Bryn 
MawT  College;  sometime  Fellow  of  the  Johns  Hopkins  University. 
VI,  181  S.     1915.  Geh.  6.^;  Leinwdbd.  6,80^. 


Terlag   von    Tandenboedt  &  Ruprecbt   in   6ottingen. 

(Bramtnattfen  6er  Qlt{^od?5euttd?en  Ptalefte: 

1. 83b.:  2lltbaitifd^e  (Brammatif  oon  ^rof.  Dr.  3.  Scbat^ 

in  Semberg.  ^rei§  get).  4,80  J6,  geb.  5,40  ^. 

3n  ber  ^citfd^rtft  f.  bcutfd)C§  Stitertum  u.  bcutft^c  2tt.  (Slnjeigec  9toD.  1908) 
finbct  fid^  eine  15  ©eiten  fiiUenbe  SSefpred^ung.    Sa  l^ei|t  es  ju  2tnfang: 

,©cl&a^  i^at  mit  e^ernem  5'^ei|e  bag  toeityd^id^tige  2)iaterial  au^  Senhnalem,  Ur= 
funben  imb  ©loffen,  foroett  fte  fur  bairifd^  gelten  fomtcn,  jufammengettagen  unb  gruppiert, 
unb  e§  ift  il^m  gelungen,  fiir  einjelne  ©rfd^einungen  eine  j^iiHe  oon  ^elegen  511  finben, 
tiber  bie  man  in  anbetrad^t  ber  SiirftigJeit  altbatriSc^er  S^ejte  gerabeju  ftaunen  mu^. 
2)te  2Inorbnung  ift  im  gro^en  imb  ganjcn  iiberfid^tlid;  unb  gi5t  ein  gute^  SBilb  oon 
ber  ©ntrcicflung  beg  2lttbairifd^eu  com  Sluggang  beg  8.  big  jum  11.  ^i)."  Unb  3um 
©d^luf;:  „3'lun  biefe  paar  3!)JangeI  uermogen  nid^t  ben  SCSert  beg  oortreff lichen  Sud^eg 
gu  erfd^iittcrn,  bag  ung  enblid^  in  ben  ©tanb  fc^t,  bie  bairifd^e  9)Junbartenforfc^ung  auf 
fefte,  l^iftorifd^e  58afig  ju  griinben.  33efonberg  tjernorgei^oben  fei  nod^,  ba^  eg  aud^  eine 
Slei^e  neuer  roertooller  33eobad^tungen  ent^alt". 

2. 93b.:  2l(tfranftfd^e  (5rammatiL    Sout^  unb  ^le^ionsle^re 
Don  Dr.  3.  ^tancf J  ^rofeffor  on  ber  Uniuerfitcit  Sonn.    $rei§  ge^. 

7,80  ^,  in  SeiniDanbbanb  8,40  J6. 

Sn  ssorbereitung  ift:  ZHtalemaitttifcbe  (5va\n\naixf  Don  ^rof. 
Dr.  K.  Bot^nenbet^er, 

Die  (Bebid^te  (Dsxval^s  von  IDolfenftetn  ^erousgegeben 

tton  3,  Sdiai^.    1901.    get).  6  J^,  in  2vothh.  6,60  J6. 

Die  Hausnamen  und  Hauszeichen.     are  Geschichte,  Ver- 

breitung  und  Einwirkung   auf  die   Bildung   der  Familien-    und 
Gassennamen.    Von  Ernst  Grohne.    1912.   214  S.    gr.  8.   6  Ji. 

Don  5cr  Uniocrfttat  (Sotttngen  prctsgcfrontc  Arbeit. 

3tfd|r.  f.  5.  (BumnafialtDefcn  1912:  „Das  Dorlicgenbc  Bud)  ift  jcljr  roertDoII 
unb  cin  tDid)ttges  £}tlfsmtttel  fiir  jeben,  ber  fid)  mil  bent  ®ebiet  ber  tlamen 
bcfd)aftigt.  (Es  ftellt  cinerfeits  bie  Sitte  ber  £)ausnamen  fiir  gan3  Deutfd)Ianb  bar, 
inbcnt  es  bie  nad)rid)ten  fiir  bie  r!erfd)iebenen  Stabte  Dergleid)enb  3ufammenfteIIt, 
onbcrerfeits  gel)t  es  iiberall  grunblid)  unb  gcnau  auf  bie  (Einselijeitcn  ein  unb 
gibt  fo  eine  Ubcrfid)t  bes  gcfamten  Bcftanbes.  3d)  f)abe  geglaubt,  burd)  eine 
3nl)altsiiberfid)t  ant  bcften  cin  Bilb  oon  bent  reid)en  Stoff  3U  gcben,  ben  es  entf)alt." 

Zeufi,  Kasp.:  Die  Deutschen  und  die  Nachbarstamme.    2.,  un- 

veranderte  Auflage.     Anastat.  Neudruck  der  Ausgabe  von  1837. 
1904  (Vin,  780  S.)    8.  16./^;  geb.  18^. 

Worterbuch  der  nordwestthuringischen  Mundart  des 

Eiehsfeldes.      Von   Dr.   Konrad   Hentrieh.     1912.     VIH, 

109  S.    gr.  8.  4  J^. 

Dicfes  mit  Untcrftii^ung  bes  Dereins  fiir  Q:t)iiringifd)e  (Befd)id)tc  unb  flltertums= 

funbe  I)erausgegcbcne  tOorterbiid)  entl)alt  biejenigen  tDorter  ber  ITIunbart,  bie  ent= 

roeber  bent  Sd)riftbeutfd)en  gcinslid)  fcl)len  ober  fid)  oon  biefem  in  Bebeutting,  Bilbung 

ober  (5efd)Ied)t  unterfdjeiben;  ferncr  bent  Sd)riftbcutfd)cn  entfprcd)enbe,  fuIturl)iftorif^ 

bebeutfame  Husbriidc.     rOie  ber  XDortbcftanb   fid)   in  biefem  IDortcrbud)  barftcllt, 

tDurbe   cr  in  ben  3al)ren  1902-1907   auf  tOanberungcn  nod)   ben   toefcntlid)   in 

Bctrad)t  fommenbcn  (Drtfd)aften  gcfammcit,  unb  feitbcm  burd)  freunblid)c  DTitarbcit 

flnbcrer  ergan3t. 


ilMiiferiii 


iiitt..)^ 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  oa  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
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[m  1  I  ^9TF 


lE^m?  m  itTT 


PEB8S1981 


REa  cm    JUL  2  4  m] 


'JAN  2 11984     r.2 


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